THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA 


ALOIS  B.  RENEHAN. 


New  Mexican  Printing  Company, 
Santa  Fe,  N.  M. 


Copyright  19</, 

By  Alois  B.  Renehan. 

Santa  Fe,  N.  M. 


PS 


(To  MY  FATHER, 

A  poet  unknown  to  fame  because  he 
sang  for  self  alone,  this  volume  is 
affectionately  inscribed. 


786890 


FOREWORD. 

Some  run  into  print  for  profit,  some  out  of  pride  or 
vanity.  I  publish  because  the  mood  is  on  me,  and  because, 
like  other  fond  parents,  I  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  my 
offspring  in  spite  of  their  imperfections. 

"Retrospection"  is  to  be  commended  in  hardly  any  re 
spect,  if  in  any  at  all,  but  I  let  it  stand  as  a  monument  to  the 
imagination  which  conceived  and  the  impulse  wihch  expressed 
its  sentiments.  That  imagination  and  that  impulse  have  been 
dead  for  many  years,  and  in  their  room,  I  trust,  a  charity  has 
been  installed,  which  will  admit  a  possible  misinterpretation 
of  the  characters  portrayed  in  darker  hues. 

It  is  not  unusual  to  suggest  immaturity  of  age  in  apology 
for  an  author's  shortcomings,  and  though  nearly  all  of  these 
lines  were  written  at  college,  at  a  time  when  mother's  apron 
strings  were  still  intact,  I  do  not  offer  that  fact  in  extenua 
tion.  The  riper  discretion  which  procures  the  publication 
must  be  the  burden-bearer  of  its  sins  without  regard  to  the 
deficiencies  of  the  youth  which  provided  the  materials. 

However,  I  have  friends  who  are  generous  or  careless 
enough  to  discover  some  virtue  in  my  work,  and  I  would 
not  refuse  them  an  opportunity  to  possess  in  compact  form 
that  with  which  to  occupy  a  vagrant  half  hour.  Those  of  a 
literary  turn  will  see  the  flaws  with  kindly  eye;  those  whose 
aptitudes  are  not  encompassed  by  letters  will  entertain  an 
idle  season;  some  may  attribute  to  the  writings  merits  which 
they  do  not  own.  In  any  case,  each  will  find  gratification 
according  to  his  notion  in  Songs  From  the  Black  Mesa. 

ALOIS  B.  RENEHAN, 

Santa  Fe,  N.  M.,  November  1,  1900. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Carolyn  Claraci .  11 

Angling 15 

Clamavi  ad  Te,  Domine! 17 

LaZeporita 21 

Cruising  on  the  Cruiser,  Life          ....  23 

Pauline      - 25 

Lisbeth 26 

The  Lighthouse  Keeper           .    ' 27 

The  Bridal  of  the  Dead                                                    ...  28 

Introspection 45 

Four-Year-Old 47 

I  Often  Try  to  Sing  the  Days 49 

On  the  Farm 5O 

What  is  This  Love? 52 

Disenchantment 54 

Good-Bye,  My  Books .  55 

A  Mood  of  Mine 57 

Oh,  That  I  Could  Forget!        ....               ...  58 

Sorrow 59 

Threnody 6O 

Lullaby 63 

A  Drinking  Song 65 

To  My  Watch    . 66 

Symptoms 67 

To  Frances  Folsom  Cleveland 68 

Carmelita 71 

Inconstancy's  Confession 72 

Hope 73 

On  Returning  to  St.  Charles .    .    74 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

Mother  Mary         .  76 

Cupid's  Shot 77 

Retrospective       .  78 

Ravings 102 

May,  1884       .        .        .  1O6 

Lina 1O7 

The  Wagon  Ride  From  College  to  the  Cars                       .  1O8 

Uncertainty 11O 

Two  Flowers 112 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  May  Kavanaugh             .  12O 
Caesar  Jackson's  Wedding    ....                             .121 

An  Alexandrian  Love  Affair 123 

Coyote's  Argument   ...  125 
To  the  Prairie  Dog        ....                                            .128 

The  Drill  of  the  Cowboy  Rough  Rider  13O 

What  Boots  It  to  Weep?     ...                                            .  132 

Let  Me  Dream      ....                             ....  137 

Aftermath ....  138 

To  Bessie        .  14O 
St.  Matthew's  Institute— Second  Anniversary  •       .       .       .141 

When  "Teddy"  Set  Up  the  Wine        ....  142 

Cuba  Libre         .  144 

The  Major        .....                                                  .       .  146 

Jurors  Insurgent     .  148 

Lamentation ...  152 

To  Chas.  W.  Dudrow  .153 

Epigrams         ...  154 

TRANSLATIONS. 
From  the  Spanish. 

Love's  Frailty ,  159 

The  First  Blown  Flower      .  16O 

Nightingale    .  161 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 

A  Poet's  Epitaph 162 

Mosquito 163 

At  the  Tomb  of  the  Duque  de  Lerma,  Roman  Cardinal     .  164 

Frederick,  Brother  of  the  Marquis  Espinola       .       .       .  165 

La  Virtud  Perdida 166 

From  the  French. 

The  Emigrant  Mountaineer 167 

Unholy  Love .169 

What  is  Life 171 

All  Souls'  Day 172 

The  Convalescent .  175 

The  Angel  and  the  Child 177 

The  Leaf 178 

Sonnet ...  179 

Epigram  1 8O 

From  the  Latin. 

The  Deluge 181 

Dencalion's  Address  to  Pyrra 182 


SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

CAROLYN  CLARACI. 

Ah,  maid,  the  fear  that  filled  thy  mind  of  me, 

Where  is  it  now? 

Where  is  the  doubt  that  ravished  me  from  thee, 
And  sent  me  far  beyond  the  rumbling  sea 

To  savage  climes, 
Where  hoping  knew  no  smoothly  fluent  rhymes, 

But  when  the  thought  was  thou. 

And  here  I  am  again  and  tender  look  for  thee, 

But  thou  hast  gone. 

The  same  birds  sing,  the  same  brook  purlingly 
Whimpers  along  its  sedgy  marge,  and  see! 

I  stroke  its  crest, 
Fleecily  curling,  and  I  seek  for  rest, 

While  it  goes  restless  on. 

I  see  thy  fond  face  pictured  in  the  stream, 

Thy  laughter  hear; 

Thy  dazzling  glance  leaps  lightly  from  the  beam 
That  flutters  on  the  water,  and  I  dream 

Of  other  days. 
And  thou  art  sitting  by  my  side  always, 

As  in  that  distant  year. 

And  when  thou  kissed  me  that  last  night,  ah,  yes, 

And  said  "Good-bye!" 
I  went  away  so  sad,  I  could  not  guess 
That  thou  didst  love  me  then,  indeed,  no  less 

Than  I  did  thee. 


12  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  on  my  lips  thy  kiss  hung  tremblingly, 
Thou  sister,  brother  I. 

But  thou  art  dead,  alas!  and  flown,  alas! 

So  far  away. 

And  there  the  roysterers  shout  at  merry  mass, 
The  country  play  beside  the  meadow  pass 

Flings  gladsomely, 
And  lad  and  maiden  all  forget  my  dree, 

That  wept  that  other  day. 

Oh,  if  we  only  knew  the  speechless  truth, 

That  coyly  peeps 

From  out  the  eye  of  timid,  bashful  youth, 
Fain  to  be  seen,  and,  on  the  cheek  vermouth, 

Burns  softly  red, 
A  lamplight  lit  that  one  might  read  at  dead 

Of  night,  the  word  that  leaps 

Along  the  quivering  pulses  evermore, 

And  satin  flesh. 

But  each  knew  not  the  other  well  before 
The  parting  day,  nor  knew  the  runeless  lore 

That  we  have  learned 
At  last  in  sorrowing,  while  wasting  burned 

The  taper  trimmed  afresh. 

And  now  through  life  I'll  wander  onward  sick, 

And  think  of  thee, 

And  languish  for  the  day  when  I  can  prick 
The  sluggish  steed  of  time,  until  it  stick 

At  length  fore'er 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  otherwhere. 

And  wilt  thou  come  to  me, 


CAROLYN  CLARACI.  13 

And  meet  me  when  I  venture  boldly  in 

Where  thou  art  now:* 

For  I'll  shall  be  right  blessed  thus  to  win 
Once  more  thy  raptured  smile,  and  love  the  sin 

Of  heeding  not 
That  smote  our  living  wordless  troth  begot, 

But  never  born  a  vow. 

But  I  do  bless  the  waiting  and  the  woe 

That  came  of  it, 

To  know  the  gathered  bliss  that  I  shall  know 
When  then  together,  as  of  old,  we  go 

By  other  ways, 
'Neath  other  shadowy  woods,  in  other  days, 

And  by  some  new  stream  sit. 

Good-bye,  dear  girl:  till  then,  forlorn;  good-bye! 

The  moon  goes  down 

Below  the  vineyard  hill;  the  gray  owl's  cry 
Is  thrumming  in  the  glen;  the  glade  that  by 

The  whistling  run 
Is  shrill  with  crickets'  song,  grows  dusk  and  dun, 

And  like  a  human  frown. 

So  I  must  go  away  to-night,  away 

Beyond  the  scene, 

And  let  the  night-bird  tell  the  sprite  and  fay 
Of  thee  and  me  alone,  for  all  I  say 

Is  sad  tonight, 
Though  memory  sings  the  dolesome  and  the  bright, 

And  that  which  thou  hast  been. 

Fond  brook,  flow  on  and  play  thy  wonted  tune 

Before  I  go: 
Shimmer  along  the  landscape,  silver  moon, 


14  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  whiten  up  the  shallow,  and  the  dune 

Above  the  glade: 
Shrill  crickets,  cheep  again,  before  I  fade 

Away  tonight  and  go. 

Good-night,  old  homestead  on  the  hill,  good-night! 

And  down  the  path, 

That  crawls  among  the  apple  trees,  a  blight, 
And  lost,  I  wind  once  more,  and  watch  the  flight 

Of  boding  rooks: 
Once  more  apast  the  rustic  bench,  and  nooks 

Of  love  I  go, — Good-night! 

The  old  gate  creaks  behind  me.  misering: 

The  dusty  height 

I  labor  up,  and  pause  awhile:  shrill  sing 
The  crickets  still,  and  stupid  birds  take  wing. 

Upon  the  hill, 
Far  off  from  home,  I  stand  and  gaze,  until 

My  old  dog  bays  "good-night!" 


ANGLING.  15 


ANGLING. 

Out  on  the  river,  jilting 

Glides  my  fickle  boat, 

The  rocky  minstrels  lilting 

A  lullaby  soft  and  low. 

Do  I  think  of  the  fishes  kilting 

Themselves  with  the  opaline  stream? 

Do  I  think  of  the  pools  I  ravish, 

Of  the  mate  from  her  mate  I  snare, 

Of  the  moaning  I  bring  to  the  waters, 

And  the  weapons  of  death  I  bear? 

Hushed  on  the  mute  rock  sitting, — 
In  drowsy  solitude,  it  and  I, — 
Where  the  eddies  come  bewimpled 
In  hoods  of  lacy  foam, 
I  lurk  like  a  thief  in  the  thicket, 
That  a  frail  finny  fellow  may  die, 
And  think  not  yet  of  the  sorrow, 
Or  waft  of  the  piscerine  sigh. 

Over  beyond  on  the  hilltop, 

Clad  green  in  the  murmurous  leaves, 

I  hear  the  song  of  the  redbreast, 

That  wooes  as  I  would  woo, 

And  I  say  to  myself:     "I  loiter 

Alone  in  this  lonely  place 

To  weave  in  its  fancy  my  fancy, 

And  picture  me  only  a  face;" 

Till  I. dream  on  this  lovelorn  rock, 

Out  here  where  the  eddies  play, 

Catching  vaguely  the  moan  of  their  music, 

Crooning  tender  at  set  of  the  day. 


16  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Ah,  that  face  will  go  with  me  forever, 
In  sleeping  or  waking  I  ween, 
And  sad  must  I  wander  forever, 
And  mind  me  the  face  I  have  seen. 
Its  beauty  is  fretful  and  lonely: 
It  smiles  but  the  smiles  I  distrust: 
But  its  sadness  that  won  my  love,  only 
Corroded  my  soul  like  a  rust. 


CLAMAVI   AD  TE,    DOMINE.  IT 


CLAMAVI  AD  TE,  DOMINE. 

Quenched  is  the  light,  the  warming  ray 
That  in  its  glow  had.  wrapped  me  here, 
And  all  the  hopes  effulgence  brings, 
And  all  the  songs  contentment  sings, 
Have  followed  it  away,  away, 
And  left  me  lonely,  broken,  drear. 

Alice,  my  girl,  why  have  you  gone 
Within  the  all-encircling  gloom? 
And  could  you  not  abide  with  me 
A  moment  more?     Could  it  not  be? 
Then  pray  me  to  my  dying  on, 
And  meet  me  at  the  closing  tomb. 

Slow  moves  the  heart:  its  fire  is  low; 
It  wavers  like  my  hopes  and  fears, 
For  now  no  more  your  face  revives 
It  failing  fast,  and  sorrow-gyves, 
Pain-wrought,  oppress:  this  bitter  woe 
Indites  the  tracery  of  years. 

Ah,  yes.  I  know  there's  light  above! 
Are  you  not  there,  dear,  vanished  girlV 
And  hence  are  shadows  on  my  path. 
Where'er  I  go  the  darkness  hath 
On  me  its  cloak,  as  if  for  love 
Its  folds  encircle,  furl  on  furl. 

Fain  would  I  bear  the  winding-sheet. 
A  passport  only  up  to  thee. 


18  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

The  tinsel  of  the  thoughtless  proud, 
Their  gorgeous  fabrics,  gem-endowed, 
Not  to  thy  skyey  bourne  admit, 
Not  from  my  bondage  set  me  free. 

'Tis  not  in  shams  the  riven  soul 
Can  find  the  solace  or  the  peace, 
And  all  the  trinkets  mines  bestow 
Can  not  illume  the  gloom  of  woe, 
Can  not  expunge  the  blurs  of  dole, 
Nor  shackled  happiness  release. 

The  fulsome  tribe  with  worship  base, 
The  tender  strains  that  love  can  sing, 
The  flash  of  wit,  nor  humor's  brew. 
Nor  banquet  spread,  nor  winecup's  hue, 
Nor  piquant  pen,  nor  beauty's  face, 
Can  keep  regret  from  whimpering. 

Would  that  from  out  this  pictured  scene 
My  soul  unvestured  I  could  pluck! 
Smug  pomp  and  pageant  strut,  in  silk, 
For  which  has  toiled  the  sweaty  ilk, 
But  they  forget  whereon  they  lean 
May  lapse  ere  twelve  o'clock  has  struck. 

Was  I  not  joyful  yesternoon, 
The  past  ignored,  the  future  scorned? 
Did  silks  not  rustle,  diamonds  spit 
Their  coruscations  where  I  sit 
Beside  my  dead?    And  yet  so  soon 
To  mourn  I  know,  untaught,  unwarned. 

I  beg  you  give  me  for  a  boon, 
That  life  shall  ravel  out  ere  long! 


CLAMAVI  AD  TE,   DOMING.  19 

There's  that  within  that  would  go  higher. 
Here  once  a  silver-spoken  lyre 
Was  music,  now  a  slavering  droon, 
The  fable  of  a  vital  song. 

What  is  this  scurrying  multitude? 

A  throng jot  empty-pated  fools, 

That  sleep  and  wake,  that  eat  and  rush 

In  headlong  folly,  steeped— but  hush! 

Before  the  night  a  lesson  rude 

May  rule  the  brain  that  nothing  rules. 

I  now  am  wise  indeed;  I  know 
To  look  beyond  the  screed  today: 
I  know  the  book  has  many  leaves, 
And  everyone  somewhat  bereaves. 
Beware  tomorrow;  it  may  go 
Aright;  go  otherwise  it  may. 

Upon  this  buoyant,  frivolous  sphere, 
'Tis  all  a  blatant,  dressed-up  fraud: 
Day's  dalliance  is  a  frowzy  charm; 
Peace  startled  by  a  harsh  alarm: 
Day  done  to  death  in  festive  cheer 
Is  still,  and  night  is  overawed. 

And  death  is  but  an  open  door 

Unto  a  passageway  that  leads 

To  better  things  than  gaudy  gowns, 

And  smiles  that  cover  sneers  and  frowns. 

Provided  life  prepares,  before 

The  harvest-home,  productive  seeds. 

Remove  this  sorrow's  nasty  cup: 
Present  the  dreamy  drug  of  death. 


20  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Taught  by  the  secret  pang  that  lives 
And  thrives  at  heart,  I  seek  what  gives 
A  chariot  home,  to  take  me  up 
To  home  when  I  have  yielded  breath. 


LA   ZEPORITA.  21 


LA  ZEPORITA. 

Her  eyes  are  brown  as  berries. 
Her  hair  as  black  as  night, 

Her  cheeks  like  blushful  roses, 
Her  step  like  dawn  of  light. 

And  in  her  voice  is  music. 

Like  flute-notes  o'er  the  wave, 
That  bears  a  sweeter  message 

Than  peevish  love  would  crave. 

Oh,  yield  me  now  the  glory 
That  gilds  her  where  she  goes! 

Oh,  yield  me  now  the  lyric 

That  rustles  from  her  clothes ! 

No  daughter  there  is  fairer 

Beneath  the  Mexic  sun, 
For  in  her  face  and  fashion 

Is  beauty's  gamut  run. 

I  saw  her  on  the  plaza, 
The  gazing  crowd  around, 

Where  every  glance  was  homage, 
And  tribute  every  sound. 

I  stood  beside  the  fountain, 
That  flung  its  meed  of  praise, 

And  watched  her  brown  eyes  sparkle 
With  thefts  of  vernal  rays. 


22  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

The  flower  on  the  trellis, 
It  blows,  and  glows  and  dies; 

The  flower  on  the  verdant  sod, 
It  fades  while  Zephyr  sighs. 

The  boscage  on  the  mountain, 
The  wilding  on  the  plain, 

The  frost  it  smites  them  saffron 
Whose  forbears  it  has  slain. 

But  she  is  like  the  sculpture 
Of  ancient  Rome  and  Greece, 

By  fame  or  fortune  guarded 
From  mortal  themes'  surcease. 

And  on  the  mind  she  enters 
Through  portal  of  the  eye, 

A  perfect  face  she  etches, 
That  can  not  dim  nor  die. 


CRUISING  ON  THE  CRUISER,   LIFE.  23 


CRUISING  ON  THE  CRUISER,  LIFE. 

It  clears  from  a  harbor  of  gloom, 
For  the  desolate  port  of  the  tomb: 
The  crib  is  a  bunkplace  today, 
Tomorrow  a  coffin. 

The  waves  gather  high  all  around, 
Or  calms,  or  lugubrious  fogbanks  abound; 
Now  seagulls  delightedly  play 
In  rigging  and  offing. 

There's  gladness  on  board  many  times, 
Or  the  drone  of  funereal,  chanted  rhymes, 
As  it  cleaves  through  the  weather  its  way, 
Like  a  rapier  of  light. 

Through  bayous  where  birds  sing  we  sail, 
Near  shores  where  the  woods  grumble,  groan  and  wail: 
One  time  in  the  vastness  we  lay 
In  the  murk  of  the  night. 

See,  the  heavens  are  frantic  with  flame, 
Where  the  harmonized  ocean  pipes  organed  acclaim — 
The  Triune  tumultuous  obey ! 
And  I  love  the  trip  out. 

At  the  rage  of  a  monster  set  free, 
At  the  bayonets  that  stab  through  the  swooning  sea, 
The  beautiful  falters  away. 

Then  I  hate,  for  I  doubt. 


24  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MKSA. 

But  when  will  the  pilot  arrive, 
And  whitherward,  on  like  a  cloud,  do  we  strive? 
This  future,  what  is  it,  I  pray, 
Or  past  with  its  sorrow? 

And  when  the  crew  land,  who  can  tell, 
If  ill  'twill  be  with  them  or  worsened  or  well, 
On  shore  leave  forever  that  day? 
Let's  wait  till  tomorrow. 


PAULINE.  25 


PAULINE. 

I  am  forbid  to  give  my  heart  to  thee; 
I  am  forbid  to  give  my  love;  and  all 
Thy  heart,  if  'tis  not  mine,  let  it  befall 
That  mine  is  thine,  spite  what  the  canons  be. 

Another  holds  thy  hand  in  his,  and  see! 

One  word  he  breathes,  "My  wife!"  "A  wife  in  name!' 

Halts  on  thy  lips,  and  who  will  utter  blame? 

And  yet — thou  art  his  wife  unfaithfully. 

For  though  no  blemish  doth  thy  soul  defile, 
The  might  paternal  which  hath  tied  thee  down 
To  him  for  whom  thou  hast  but  scorn  and  frown, 
Doth  almost  hint  ''In  sin  there  is  no  guile!" 

And  should  I  pine  that  thou  art  not  a  smile 
And  lush  perfumery  to  my  life,  a  laugh 
And  light  of  holy  love?    The  world's  best  half 
I'd  give  without  demur  to  own  a  while 

Thy  coldest  word's  caressing,  not  to  quaff 
Unholiness,  but  really  for  the  soul, 
And  not  to  loll  and  gaze,  and  not  to  troll 
For  revelry,  but  in  my  heart's  behalf. 

But  I  must  stop — to  think  it  can  not  be! 
Unless — unless — Why  speak  the  rest  tonight? 
Let's  hide  the  tempting  prospect  from  the  sight. 
With  other  hopes  deferred,  expectantly. 


26  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


LISBETH. 

I  sat  last  night  my  window  near, 
And  laid  my  head  upon  the  sill, 

And  thought  of  thee  so  far  from  here, 
While  painting- dreams  of  thee. 

My  book  was  open  at  my  side, 
But  on  the  page  I  saw  no  word 

That  did  not  tell  me  ere  it  died 
Some  pretty  tale  of  thee. 

The  night  went  by  and  streaks  of  morn 
Were  palette-strewn  upon  the  sky, 

And  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  shorn 
From  garments  worn  by  thee. 

Kind  Sleep  came  down  and  closed  my  eyes; 

Her  voice  was  thine,  her  look  was  thine: 
She  wore  my  rose  of  deep-red  dyes 

With  all  the  grace  of  thee. 

And  when  I  woke  I  glanced  around 

Expecting  surely  thee  to  see 
With  all  thy  raven  glory  crowned. 

And  hear  the  laugh  of  thee. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  KEEPER.  27 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  KEEPER. 

The  face  of  the  heaven  is  bright 

With  its  eyes  alight; 
There's  not  a  sound  on  the  sleepy  sea, 

Save  kissed  waves  that  flee; 
There's  not  a  bird  of  night  afloat, 

But  some  white-winged  boat. 
And  I  watch  within  the  lighthouse, 

Without  friend  but  a  mouse; 
Above  the  watchfire  burns  and  warns; 

The  bell-buoy  mourns 
Below  that  women  learn  not  to  weep 

For  murder  of  the  deep. 
Beyond  on  shore  are  wife  and  child, 

And  for  each  I  have  whiled 
Full  forty  moons  aloof  from  them 

The  groping  ship  to  stem 
And  guard  and  guide  'mongst  rock  and  reef, 

The  daggers  of  the  thief 
That  ocean  is,  when  it  would  prowl, 

Concealed  in  cloudy  cowl. 
The  lighthouse  man — who  thinks  of  me 

If  dutiful  I  be? 
The  counseled  sailor  sails  he  by: 

Without  a  name  am  I! 


28  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD. 

From  the  rising  of  the  day  star 

Until  the  fall  of  night, 
The  song  of  women  singing  far 

Adown  the  vale  of  Cleite, 
Winged  to  me  like  a  fancy  flight 

My  sore  distress  to  soothe, 
A  soft  and  gladsome  chanting  smooth 

Upon  my  grewsome  plight. 

Still  there  I  sat  like  urchin  ta'en 

By  fairies'  mystic  art, 
Or  like  the  Spartan  when  the  paean 

Struck  sudden  in  the  mart; 
And  thought  that  bade  me  thence  depart 

No  briefest  favor  found, 
But  every  step,  the  happy  sound 

Enmeshed,  that  stirred  to  start. 

F'ar,  far  below  the  heaving  slope 

A  cortege  long  wound  on, 
Around  the  hillside  wreathed  with  hope, 

But  one  was  silent,  wan. 
She  lolled  upon  a  flowered  throne, 

As  beauteous  as  the  May, 
And  woods  bestowed  their  wildings  gay, 

Wide  open  and  unblown. 

The  filial  fondness  of  her  hair 

That  clung  upon  her  neck; 
The  cold,  sharp  eyes  and  vacant  stare, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  29 

That  stunned  the  gaze  and  reck; 
Yet  on  her  cheek  no  stain,  no  speck, 

No  blemish  anywhere; 
A  dulcet  girl  and  queenly  rare — 

But  who?  and  why  bedeck? 

And  why  sits  she  so  still,  the  while 

Around  the  garish  car, 
A  maiden  throng  with  pretty  wile 

Are  following  near  and  far, 
And  flinging  jest  and  flowery  star, 

In  wanton,  witching  guile, 
And  singing  thoral  songs  that  roil 

The  silences,  and  mar. 

A  feast  prepared,  they  seem  to  haste, 

Like  guests  elate  and  glad, 
Those  who,  with  mirth,  the  mute,  wide  waste 

Inspire  and  make  it  mad. 
Of  all  anear  but  I  was  sad, 

But  why  my  ken  outpaced, 
For  song  and  dance  were  interlaced — 

I  was  a  friendless  lad. 

And  still  my  dim  eyes  scan  the  car, 

E'er  slowly  drawing  near, 
And  her,  its  lightless  fixed  star. 

The  merry  crowd  I  hear, 
And  rising  cheer  on  risen  cheer. 

Happy  as  brides  they  are 
Who  chant  so  wierdly,  bar  on  bar, 

Around  that  barge  or  bier. 

My  soul  was  caught  of  sweaty  fear, 
Though  sense  no  reason  named: 


30  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

My  sight  grew  dimmer,  rapt,  and  drear 

The  scene  albeit  enframed 
In  russet  glow,  which  evening  claimed 

As  day's  last  tribute  here. 
I  trembled  then.  The  train  drew  near 

Me  of  my  dread  ashamed. 

Now  stranger  rites  at  once  begin 

About  the  rustic  wain; 
Urged  of  some  subtile  will  they  win 

Forth  an  horrific  strain, 
On  bended  knee,  and  cries  of  pain, 

Chill,  harrowing  shrieks,  break  in, 
And,  shuddering  at  the  impish  din, 

The  welkin  garners  rain. 

Cups  of  a  ruby  nectar  gleam, 

And  spluttering  torches  flit: 
Noise  not  of  earthly  birth,  I  deem, 

Grinds  when  a  cresset's  lit. 
The  sun  had  sunk  whero  salt  seas  sit, 

'Neath  mountains'  west-hung  boarn, 
And  rock  and  roar  a  breaker  theme; 

A  priestess  starts  at  it. 

Distraught  and  tousled  priestess  she, 

Who  lifts  the  shimmering  cup 
Over  the  fire  with  chuckling  glee, 

And  phantasms  conjures  up; 
And  gathering  to  the  bowl,  all  sup, 

Whate'er  these  people  be, 
Till  a  cogent  impulse  rises  free, 

A  master  from  the  cup. 

What  is  the  thrill  that  stabs  me  through? 
My  head  swims  like  a  stream; 


THE  BRIDAL  OF   THE  DEAD.  31 

I  sink  to  the  green  all  damp  with  dew, 

And  wonder  if  I  dream; 
I  am  awake,  and  what  may  seem 

This  awful  time,  'tis  true, 
For  there's  the  heavens'  jeweled  blue, 

The  moon-sprite's  yellow  beam. 

Zephyrs  sigh  on  the  woods'  dark  breast, 

The  waves  fret  the  coming  tide; 
A  shrub,  by  the  amorous  breeze  caressed, 

Whispers  low  like  a  bride; 
And  I  feel  my  breath  within  me  ride, 

As  free  from  the  curb's  behest; 
My  heart  beats  strong  as  after  rest, 

And  I  know  my  senses  lied. 

I  fasten  thought  upon  the  scene, 

Its  meaning  try  to  cull, 
But  never  yet  so  strange  had  been 

My  mind,  so  false  and  dull. 
I  could  no  wise  the  purpose  full 

From  out  the  seeming  take; 
I  could  no  truthful  notion  make; 

The  brain  held  carnival. 

And  still  I  gazed  in  rapture  there, 

And  still  they  gradual  moved. 
No  voice  had  risen  yet  from  where 

The  lady  sat  beloved. 
And  then  a  sudden  wish  behooved 

That  I  should  follow  too, 
And  someone  for  the  reason  sue 

These  whimsies  were  approved. 

I  joined  the  frantic  choir  then, 
And  reached  its  songless  queen, 


32  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  started  at  her  face  again, 

Emotionless  and  lean. 
I  touched  her  hand  that  dropped  between 

The  smilax-woven  rail. 
Where  fluttered  captive  doves  and  quail 

And  geese  of  foolish  mien. 

Cold  was  her  hand  and  pulseless  now: 

The  waxen  girl  was  dead: 
And  me,  half-crazed,  with  fevered  brow. 

They  scowled  at.  round  her  bed. 
The  muse  had  from  their  harpstrings  sped, 

And  from  their  mouths  the  word. 
And  not  a  sound  but  murmurs  stirred. 

And  frightened  glances  tied. 

I  thought  them  goblins  at  the  first. 

They  me  a  spectre  dread. 
No  shrilling  outshriek  curdling  burst 

Upon  my  blanching  head: 
Hut  every  word  that  I  had  said, 

A  wondering  stillness  bore 
To  them  that  scanned  my  visage  o'er. 

And  marvelling  look  rehearsed. 

Again  I  spoke,  but  doubting,  slow, 

To  one  who  stood  beside, 
Begged  her  to  tell  that  I  might  know 

Of  her  that  seemed  a  bride. 
What  gave  the  flow  to  music's  tide, 

And  what  their  counsel  now, 
And  why  the  rose-wreath  clasped  the  brow 

The  burial  snood  should  hide. 

The  flesh  that  sat  enthroned  was  lost: 
Unto  another  bourne 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  THE  DEAD.  33 

Had  gone  its  spirit  whilom  tossed 

In  earth's  unkind  sojourn, 
Save  that  a  shrine  at  which  to  mourn 

Remained  for  deep  regret, 
And  yet  for  weeping  and  the  fret 

Fresh  cheeks  delighted  burn. 

No  answer  quelled  my  growing  hate, 

No  look  with  pity  fraught. 
I  watched  them  all,  with  joy  elate, 

Pass  chattering  at  aught. 
And  then  their  angry  grumbling  caught 

Declined  and  straining  eye 
Peered  through  a  misty  screen  hung  high, 

And  something  wistful  sought. 

Out  from  the  parting  drapery  came — 

Which  night  had  fashioned  there — 
A  barge  embellished,  wrought  the  same, 

But  men  the  shaft  pole  bear. 
A  harsh-toned  chant,  upon  the  air 

Long-heard  was  sudden  still, 
And  laughters  loud  the  forest  fill, 

As  on  they  fare  and  fare. 

New  joys  the  sensuous  groups  enslave, 

And  jibe  and  song  and  mirth, 
Till  light's  reflex  from  the  raveled  wave 

Withdrew  from  the  glooming  earth; 
And  in  the  dark,  as  from  a  hearth, 

Shot  up  blue,  lurid  flame, 
The  mimes  athwart  of  the  wizard  game, 

Queer  in  being  and  birth. 

Within  the  purple  fire's  grasp 
A  resin  torch  is  hung, 


34  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Another  then,  until  its  clasp 

A  thousand  leaps  among, 
And  madly  seized  the  flambeaux  swung, 

Illume  the  shadowy  shore, 
And  voices  linked  swell  more  and  more 

A  wild  song,  wildly  sung! 

' '  Come  to  the  marriage  feast  tonight 

Beside  the  waiting  sea! 
The  dead  have  come.     The  graveworm  white 

Expects  the  revelry. 
The  youth  of  death  abideth  he; 

The  maid  of  death  is  here: 
The  wedding  guests  are  glad;  the  mere 

Is  ready  and  the  lea. 

And  still  the  plaintive  burthen  heard 

Sailed  o'er  the  raucous  main: 
"O  come!    O  come!    to  the  wedding  surd. 

Come  from  the  wold  and  plain, 
Come  from  the  skyward  peaks  again, 

Light  of  the  vanished  day, 
Sound  of  the  sea  and  winds  at  play, 

Led  by  the  noctial  bird!" 

"Come  ere  the  clammy  sepulture 

Commands  the  plighted  twain. 
It  once  has  called  and  death's  demure 

Must  go  when  called  again. 
The  night  speeds  swift  like  courier  fain: 

The  dawn  has  kissed  the  peak; 
The  stars  are  growing  pale  and  weak. 

O  come!    forswear  disdain!" 

A  priest  of  youthful  guise  and  mien, 
Stepped  from  the  manly  crowd, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  35 

And,  from  the  maiden,  she  I've  seen 

Before  the  cresset  bowed; 
And  voices  neither  low  nor  loud 

Invade  the  spot  again, 
Soft  and  sad  as  the  sound  of  rain 

Falling  on  snowy  shroud. 

Dead  youth  and  girl  are  lifted  down, 

Within  the  elfin  glare, 
She  by  a  woman  dusk  and  brown, 

And  him  the  brawny  bare. 
The  querulous  bridal  service  there 

In  quaking  tones  is  read, 
'Midst  broken  anthems  overhead, 

Which  float  from  everywhere. 

But  hush!    the  rite  is  now  begun, 

And  trickles  through  the  throng: 
"Dost  thou  wiio,  twenty  months  and  one, 

Hast  stretched  thee  stark  along 
The  eerie  cave,  where  never  song, 

Nor  glint  of  smiling  day, 
Hath  entered  to  maintain  at  bay 

The  mute  and  darkling  wrong." 

"Dost  thou  accept  this  preferred  mace, 

This  thyme  that  binds  the  dead, 
Called  from  thy  dolorous  resting  place 

Of  quietude  to  wed 
With  him  who  came  to  thee  apace, 

Lovelorn  to  thy  damp  bed, 
Which  all  traditions  bid,  as  said 

Within  the  Book  of  Grace." 

"Fair  maiden,  sister  of  good  fate, 
Seest  thou  or  hearest  thou? 


36  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Speak  through  the  spirit  clan  sedate 

Bending  attentive  now! 
For  thus  the  ritual  runneth:     "How 

Holily  those  who  late, 
Oping  the  charnal  wedding  gate, 

By  mace  and  thyme  avow!  " 

"How  holy  those  who  speak  and  hear 

By  spiritual  sense, 
Who,  after  passing  through  the  mere 

Of  death,  come  promptly  hence, 
Because  the  call  from  dense  suspense, 

Like  hope  o'erbearing  fear, 
Hath  uttered  been,  and  bid  the  bier 

Yield  up  its  charge  intense!" 

Thus  read  the  priest  in  language  keen, 

With  hands  above  the  flame, 
Unto  the  girl,  and  all  were  seen 

To  move,  and  slowly  came 
Athwart  the  glow,  as  if  a  frame 

Of  dazzling  held  the  scene, 
And  stood,  as  they  had  lately  been, 

All  silent  in  the  drame. 

And  hereupon  a  vestal  rose, 

Amid  the  fire-red  press, 
And  joined  the  priest  in  calm  repose. 

Lifting  her  hand,  her  dress 
With  modest  craft  fell  back,  no  less 

Her  beauty  to  disclose 
Than  manifest,  in  awful  pose, 

Her  consecrant  distress. 

For  Python-like  she  raved,  and  tore 
Her  hair  to  words  unsouled, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  37 

And  when  her  twistings  fierce  no  more 

Disturbed  her  heavenly  mould, 
She  sang,  immediately  the  cold, 

Lone  stillness  fled  before. 
Unto  the  lifelike  form,  as  o'er 

His  clay  no  knell  had  tolled: 

"Dost  thou,  fair  youth,  obey 
The  marriage  call  tonight  ? 
On  nimble  foot  doth  come  the  day 
In  chausable  of  light." 

"The  tomb  hath  let  thee  forth 
From  all  its  ancient  doom ; 
And  coldly  sleeps  the  frozen  north, 
Enveloped  in  its  gloom." 

"And  till  you  twain  be  one, 
The  boreal  earth  is  sad, 
And  ne'er  shall  know  the  thawing  sun, 
And  nevermore  be  glad." 

"Dost  thou  accept  thy  bride, 
Pure  as  an  artist's  prayer 
To  Parian  marble  died, 
Unflecked  by  gnomes  of  air? 

"  Dost  thou,  O  frail,  fond  son  of  death, 

More  beauteous  I  declare, 
Bend  'neath  this  yoke  my  formal  breath 

Puts  on  thy  soul  to  wear? 
'  Tis  long  decreed  and  graven  there, 

That  thus  the  plighted  swear, 
Whom  dissolution  hindereth 

The  carnal  bond  to  bear." 


38  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

"  See  ye  this  thong,  O  man  and  maid, 

This  mystic  nuptial  tie, 
Lovers  that,  ere  the  ritual's  read, 

Out  of  the  transient  die, 
Must  vowing  fasten  on  the  thigh, 

Badge  of  confession  said, 
Before  the  cold  obsequial  bed 

Has  come  forever  nigh?" 

"And  dost  thou,  maid,  and  dost  thou,  man, 

Each  other  take  to  be, 
For  all  the  journey  now  began 

Beyond  life's  sophistry, 
Companions  fast,  and  soon  to  see 

The  lucence  none  may  scan 
This  side  the  grave,  where  never  can 

Flourish  but  misery?" 

This  said,  the  ready  sponsors  tell 

A  love  tale  prior  told, 
Where  no  one  heard,  by  those  whose  knell 

Awaked  the  slumberous  wold. 
The  choir  of  men,  no  longer  cold, 

Like  varivocal  bell 
That  glorifies  a  deed  done  well, 

Harmonious  joy  unfold: 

"Thee,  sweet  maid,  my  soul  will  wed, 

Thee,  in  thy  beauty  pale, 
And  all  the  garlands  on  thy  head. 

Kissed  by  the  whispering  gale, 
Know  not  such  tender  care,  nor  shall, 

Such  sweetness  as  is  shed 
Around  thy  fragrant  nuptial  bed, 

And  death  shall  not  prevail.  " 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  39 

And  then  the  girlish  singers,  sooth, 

Chimed  to  a  lulling  strain: 
Thee,  sweet  youth,  sweet  stifled  youth, 

My  soul  will  wed  again. 
Forgotten  now  the  olden  pain, 

When  thou  was  filched  in  truth 
From  in  my  arms,  when  punic  ruth 

Fled  and  I  screamed  in  vain. ' ' 


"And  oh,  the  darksome  staring  day, 

The  night  with  grief  oppressed, 
The  breeze  that  came  and  sought  to  play. 

My  golden  curls  caressed! 
They  brought  me  dreams  of  thee,  my  best, 

My  glorious  sculptured  clay; 
They  brought  me  promise  seeming  gay, 

But  even  hope  distressed.  " 

"  But  now  I  clasp  thy  hand  once  more, 

And  lean  upon  thy  breast, 
And  all  the  woes  that  gathered  o'er 

Are  vanished  from  the  west ; 
And  I  am  glad  that  doom  had  wrest 

Thy  goodliness  before, 
That  T  might  glean  the  happy  store 

Which  is  the  moment's  guest." 

And  so  they  sang.     The  rite  was  done. 

Reclined  upon  one  car, 
The  two  returned  just  as  the  sun 

Shot  up  a  blazing  spar. 
And  I  could  see  them  wending  far 

Beyond  the  purple  hills, 
Tracing  their  trail  through  daffodils. 

Gloomy  and  slow  they  are. 


40  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Slow  o'er  the  fields,  pathetic,  slow! 

Festivity  no  more 
Astonished  all  the  meadow  low. 

The  winds  no  longer  bore 
Up  to  the  mount  a  merry  store 

Of  shouts  and  laughs  aflow 
On  music's  whims,  but  over  all 

Fell  morning  like  a  pall. 

The  day  had  come  and  they  had  gone. 

Whitherward  evanished? 
The  brands  of  night  no  longer  shone, 

Though  smoke  curled  overhead. 
Nature  was  hushed.     Then  dawn  with  red 

The  snowy  summits  tipped, 
And  down  and  down  the  night  robe  slipped, 

Like  to  a  vestment  shed. 


Tt  was  a  strange,  improper  mien 

For  wedding  guests  to  wear  — 
The  sadness  where  the  joy  had  been, 

And  silence  here  and  there. 
No  cymbals  strike  and  tuna  the  air: 

No  reed  pipe  and  no  strings: 
No  wedding  bell  in  gladness  rings; 

No  blazing  and  no  blare. 

I  saw  the  orange-blossomed  bride 

Of  my  own  land  appear; 
I  saw  my  sister's  comely  pride, 

And  all  the  village  near. 
And  then  methought  I  heard  it  clear, 

The  horses  champ  and  neigh, 
Galloping  down  the  frozen  way, 

Through  frosty  atmosphere. 


THE   BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  41 

I  saw  the  far  Columbia's  beach 

Climb  gradual  from  the  sea, 
As  like  a  giant  in  its  reach, 

As  misery  is  to  me; 
Not  even  the  wild,  unbidden  screech 

Of  hidden  owl  will  teach, 
Though  here  no  comrade  takes  my  hand, 

There's  life  upon  the  land. 

All  of  the  past  stood  round  me  glad, 

Quietly  glad  and  still; 
Hope  in  those  days  was  never  sad, 

And  hardly  ever  ill; 
Hope  of  my  youth  so  wont  to  thrill, 

So  kind  with  praise  and  fame, 
That  builded  me  a  mighty  name, 

As  masons  build  a  mill. 


And  then  I  cried:     "Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 

Must  I  these  wilds  endure, 
This  reeky  soil,  this  tarnished  sod, 

Desolate  and  impure. 
And  must  I,  after  days  demure, 

Fall  broken  'neath  thy  rod, 
Till  death  come  down  and,  suasive,  nod: 
"I,  only  I  am  sure!" 

Oh,  shall  I  ever  see  again 

My  farm  home  on  the  hill? 
And  may  I  kiss  with  pleasing  pain 

My  mother  old  and  ill, 
And  meet  my  father  at  the  sill. 

The  worn  door  sill  I  knew, 
And  hold  my  sister  fast  and  true? 

God  grant  me  that  I  will. 


42  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  how  I  long  once  more  to  seek 

The  meadow  lands  below, 
The  cattle,  soft-eyed,  fat  and  sleek, 

And  lambs  that  bleating  go, 
And  my  old  cob  that  years  ago 

My  stanchest  friend  I  made, 
Striding  her  back,  or  in  her  shade 

Sleeping  beside  the  creek! 


I  wonder  now  if  all  the  boys 

That  frolicked  on  the  lawn, 
And  all  the  girls  —  dear,  dubious  joys—- 

Recall  the  wayward  one  ! 
I  wonder  if.  when  slant  lights  show 

Against  the  western  wood, 
They  sometimes  meet  and,  kind  and  good. 

Remember  Jack  Magone. 


I  see  them  sitting  by  the  logs 

That  crackle  at  their  feet, 
And  round  the  cheerful  cider  jogs, 

And  crullers  greasy,  sweet: 
And  from  the  rafters  things  to  eat 

Hang  tempting  down  to  them, 
The  flitch  of  bacon  which  the  gem 

And  silver  leek  betogs. 

I  wonder  if  they  think  of  me, 

Or  count  me  dead  or  ill. 
I  watch  them:  nqw  they  laugh  —  but  see  ! 

Maud  Minderly  is  still. 
She  does  not  smile,  but  picks  the  frill 

That  wriggles  on  her  breast, 
And  gazes  at  the  dog-rose  pressed 

And  aromatic  dill. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  43 

I  sit  upon  the  cottage  stoop, 

In  moody  summertide, 
And  tell  her  how  with  love  I  droop, 

And  how  my  heart  is  tried. 
I  beg  again  that  she  will  chide, 

And  send  me  far  away, 
If  her  dear  heart  she  cannot  lay 

My  own  to  beat  beside. 

I  see  my  shadow  on  the  path 

Go  pensive  down  the  slope; 
I  look  not  back,  for  vision  hath 

No  happiness,  no  hope; 
And  rather  far  than  moan  and  mope, 

I  swear  to  wander  off 
And  dare  the  wilds  of  Malagoff , 

Or  denser  jungle  ope. 

And  now  I  sail  upon  the  sea, 

And  leave  my  land  behind. 
Good-bye,  fair  land,  though  dear  to  me, 

Thy  bonds  are  cut  that  bind. 
For  Maud  has  bid  me  go,  unkind! 

I  love  her  and  I  hate, 
And  what  shall  be  my  future  fate, 

The  past  I  have  resigned. 

Upon  this  isle,  where'er  it  be, 

Or  'neath  the  solar  ray, 
Or  'neath  the  moon's  pudicity, 

My  doom  is  here  to  stay. 
And  must  I  vex  my  hours  away, 

And  never  hope  to  see 
What  once  was  ecstacy  to  me, 

Blue  eyes  that  flash  and  play. 


44  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

What,  lo!    upon  the  polished  sea 

I  stare,  and  something  there, 
With  large  white  wings,  broods  drowsily 

Beneath  the  evening  glare! 
A  ship  it  is!    My  breast  laid  bare. 

Upon  a  willow  tree, 
I  hoist  my  rags,  and  lustily 

Shout  like  a  trumpet's  blare! 

And  so  today  within  this  room 

I  tell  the  ghoulish  tale 
Of  two,  though  dead,  that  wed  in  gloom 

Where  customs  strange  prevail. 
A  wondrous  bourne,  my  whilom  jail — 

No  wonder  that  you  blanch — 
And  you  who  know  my  spirit  stanch, 

Behold  my  black  hair  pale. 

But  where  is  Maud?    Is  she  not  here  V 

"  Poor  Maud  and  churchyard  gray  ! 
She  loved  you,  Jack.     I  saw  the  tear 

Fall  when  you  left  that  May. 
I  saw  her  growing,  day  by  day, 

More  weary,  woebegone, 
And  like  the  moon  she  waned  more  wan. 

Poor  Maud  has  gone  away  !" 


INTROSPECTION.  45 


INTROSPECTION. 

O  Lord  !  my  God  !  I  beg  Thee  now, 

Awhile 
To  let  me  live,  and  cool  my  brow 

Awhile. 


No  matter  what,  I'll  ne'er  be  glad, 

I  know ; 
From  babyhood  I  grow  more  sad, 

I  know. 


And  though  I  gain  what  others  lack, 

At  times, 
On  life  I'd  willing  turn  my  back 

At  times. 


I'd  turn  my  back  and  go  away 

Beyond, 
Where  is  no  burning  garish  day, 

Beyond. 

For  this,  I  know  it  like  a  truth, 

Sometime 
Will  come  upon  my  reckless  youth, 

Sometime, 

I  know  not  what,  some  hope  I'll  lose, 

I  guess, 
Some  something  wished;  I  cannot  choose ; 

I  guess. 


46  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


But  let  it  be  what  it  may  be 

And  pass, 
The  light  illumine  cheerfully 

And  pass. 

The  day  be  even  dead  and  dark 

To  stay, 
My  future  fortune  lean  and  stark 

To  stay. 

What  figure  does  it  cut,  pray  tell ! 

I'll  go 
To  heaven  high,  or  down  to  hell  ! 

I'll  go 

Wherever  whangs  the  monstrous  bell 
That  overrules  the  will  of  man, 
And  guides  him  wrong  because  it  can. 


FOUR-YEAR-OLD.  47 


FOUR-YEAR-OLD. 

Skipping  through  the  meadow,  scolding  on  the  way, 

Hied  ray  little  Nora,  four  years  old  today, 

Purer  than  the  lily  washed  in  pearly  rain, 

Blushing  as  the  rose  does  in  the  midst  of  pain. 

Tears  stood  in  the  portal  of  her  hazel  eye, 

Struggling  out  together  wrestled  sigh  with  sigh, 

Torn  and  flowing  wildly  like  a  flame  in  air, 

Tossed  by  breeze  and  coddled,  silken  ruddy  hair; 

Naught  to  please  or  cheer  her ;  naught  to  ease  her  mind ; 

All  was  rough,  she  thought,  and  everyone  unkind. 

Upon  a  budding  bush,  spreading  in  her  path, 

Sang  a  yellow  songbird,  ignorant  of  wrath: 

Though  the  rain  fell  drizzly,  vexing  all  the  time, 

Though  the  clouds  grew  sullen  o'er  the  summer  prime, 

The  peace  that  dwelt  within  him  tooK  the  pulse  of  song, 

Warmed  his  little  body  but  a  finger  long. 

Nora  stopped  to  listen;  hushed  her  fretting  now; 

Why  should  gloomy  frownings  mar  her  baby  brow? 

Speaking  to  the  songster,  kind  and  sweet  at  last, 

Forgotten  was  the  sad  time,  just  departed  past : 
"  Little  bird,  pray  tell  me,  won't  you,  little  bird, 

Where  you  learned  that  prettiest  song  I  have  ever  heard?" 

Gladdening  as  the  morning  breaking  from  the  night, 

Pleasant  as  the  night  time  mystical  with  light, 

Looked  the  little  Nora,  penitent  at  heart, 

Wondering  at  the  songbird  and  his  native  art. 
"  You  seem  gay  and  happy  like  the  flower  you  kiss, 

Seem  to  have  forever  earthly  joy  and  bliss ; 

I  am  sad  forever,  like  the  roily  stream, 

Murmuring  as  it  does,  even  in  my  dream. 

The  sun  brings  me  no  brightness  laughing  on  my  cheek; 

The  moon  brings  me  no  sleeping  cosy,  coy  and  meek. 

See  how  'teeny '  you  are !    I'm  a  great  big  girl, 


48  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

With  flowers  blooming  on  my  cheek  kissed  by  every  curl. 
And  all  the  people  love  me,  though  I  don't  deserve, 
Fondle  and  caress  me,  kiss  my  liplets'  curve, 
Toss  me  for  a  plaything,  hide  for  me  to  find. 
And  buy  me  pretty  trifles  though  I'm  never  kind. 
You  have  none  to  love  you,  none  to  call  you  '  sweet,' 
None  to  pat  your  little  head  and  tickle  little  feet." 
And  the  bird  kept  singing  in  the  blossomed  bush. 
And  Nora  felt  its  gladness  with  a  sort  of  hush, 
For  if  a  little  birdie  could  be  happy,  good, 
Surely  she  could  also  and  surely,  too,  she  would. 

"  I  guess  its  only  badness,"  little  Nora  said. 

"  And  I  will  put  some  goodness  in  my  flossy  head." 


I  OFTEN  TRY  TO  SING  THE  DAYS.  49 


I  OFTEN  TRY  TO  SING  THE  DAYS. 

I  often  try  to  sing  the  days 

That  toddling  childhood  knew, 
But  at  each  touch  along  the  maze 

Of  slumbrous  strings,  my  finger  strays 
And  starts  unseemly  sound, 

That  like  a  shot  bird,  fluttering  too, 

Falls  dying  to  the  ground. 

Somehow  I  find  no  flowers  now, 

But  withered  stems  and  leaves  ; 
Somehow  I  know  no  fruited  bough, 

But  only  cypress  sheaves  ; 
And  lights  are  out  and  dark  glooms  hold 

A  shroud  on  all,  for  all  is  cold. 

The  tomb  life's  cold  receives. 

And  is  no  glimmer  seen  afar, 

No  weakling  spark  t'  enchant 
Me  now  ?    Methinks  I  err.     Some  star 

Must  rise  with  light  aslant ; 
Each  earthly  woe  has  Bethlehem, 

The  lost  a  Savior  sent  for  them, 

In  spite  of  cult  or  cant. 


50  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


ON  THE  FARM. 


Pretty  lady  from  the  city, 

Sitting  at  the  runnel's   brink, 
Would  you  deign  to  have  a  pity, 

If  you  guessed  of  what  I  think  ? 

Would  you  say  it  were  a  losing 
Of  a  wish  more  fit  elsewhere, 
That  I  have  no  chance  of  choosing 

Of  the  kisses  ripened  there? 

That  I  dare  not  zone  the  tight  waist 
Of  the  elf  that  holds  my  heart; 
That  her  bosom,  scorn-encased 

Lacks  in  mercy,  not  in  art? 

I  believe  not,  though  you  say  it, 

Laving  in  the  water's  flow; 

Tongues  may  lie,  but  eyes  may  nay  it, 
Spite  the  art  the  tongue  may  know. 

And  thine  eyes,  clear-sparkling  gems, 

Frightened  somewhat,  thoughtless  why, 
Speak  a  speech,  heart-apothegms, 

I  mistake  not,  swain  though  I. 

And  the  heaving  bosom  too, 

Think  you  that  I  think  it  numb? 
And  the  twitching  fingers,  do 

They  appear  to  me  as  dumb  ? 


ON  THE  FARM.  51 

And  the  blush,  the  pallor,  both 

Like  twin  gambollers  on  the  lawn, 
Leaping,  hiding,  kindly  loth 

To  be  present  or  be  gone ! 

You  say  "No"  and  they  say  "  Yes;" 
Two  say  "  Yes"  and  one  says  "  No." 
Lady,  I  have  made  my  guess; 

Happy  swain  I,  happy  Jo! 


52  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


WHAT  IS  THIS  LOVE  ? 


I'm  in  love  and  I'm  joyous  to-day ; 

Let  me  sing  like  the  throstle  at  dawn, 
Like  the  nightengale  sing  in  the  May , 

In  the  night  o'er  the  lawn, 
With  his  wantoning  fellows  at  play, 

Where  they  royster  about  up  on  high, 
Or  lurk  in  the  sedge  of  the  run, 

Ere  day  is  begun, 

Or  night  has  gone  by . 

On  yesterday  too  I  was  yielding  my  soul 

To  the  smile  of  a  girl  whom  I  met  in  the  maze 
Of  the  dance,  when  my  hand  touched  hers  in  the  roll 

And  the  whirl,  with  the  lights  ablaze. 
Yet  no  spirit  of  joy  but  a  spectre  of  dole 

Came  over  me  there  as  the  merriment  grew. 
She  laughed  as  she  frolicked  around  the  room, 

With  me  there  was  gloom 

And  the  haze  of  the  yew. 

Then  what  is  this  love  and  its  sway  V 

E'en  echo  is  hushed  in  the  vale, 
For  she  knows  not  to  speak,  and  away 

In  the  distance  'tis  quiet  and  pale ; 
And  the  hills  are  untaught,  and  the  stream 

It  is  mute  as  a  dream : 
The  trees  are  all  whispering  ' '  What  ?  ' ' 

Ah,  life  knoweth  not 

The  depth  of  the  theme. 


WHAT  IS  THIS  LOVE?  53 

Then  ask  me  not  what  is  this  love! 

For  I'm  dull  as  the  dullest  that  think, 
Sinking  not  to  its  soul,  and  above 

Where  the  lambent  stars  blink 
In  the  vault  is  the  answer  untold, 

As  in  meadow  and  wold 

Is  the  answer  unheard; 
And  the  ages  that,  falling,  unfold 

From  theuprolled  sky, 

Will  be  witless  as  I. 


54  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


DISENCHANTMENT. 

I  was  enchanted  like  the  morn, 
When  peeps  the  amorous  sun, 

Above  the  wheat,  behind  the  corn, 
When  night  is  done. 

Wild  flowers  blown  of  health  and  joy 
Are  blushing  on  her  cheek, 

And  in  her  eye  the  glance  is  coy, 
And  warm  and  meek. 

But  well -a- day!  while  in  the  dance, 

And  spinning  dizzy-fleet, 
I  looked  below,  and,'Curse  the  chance! 

I  saw  her  feet. 


GOOD-BYE,   MY  BOOKS.  55 


GOOD-BYE,  MY  BOOKS. 


I  must  look  back,  before  I  go, 
Along  my  path  with  flowerets  strown, 

And  sparkling  thought  gems  hitherto, 
With  singing  leaves  that  I  have  known, 

And  lilting  rills  that  ripple  low, 
I  sometimes  called  my  own. 

Good-bye  to  all!    How  dusk  the  day! 

No  more  I'll  seek  you  loverly, 
Nor  place  the  kiss  that  grieved  to  stay, 

Nor  gaze  in  pleasant  revery, 
Picking  my  harp  in  hope  to  play 

As  you  have  played  for  me. 

I  dwell  with  Blackstone,  Coke  and  Hale  — 
How  many  more?    God  save  the  mark! 

Shall  I  forget  you,  Muses  pale, 
As  on  I  plod  the  devious  park. 

And  watch  the  marshaled  facts  assail, 
While  upward  wheels  the  lark  ? 

Shall  I  forget  how  kind  you  came, 
And  soothed  my  brow  when  I  was  mad, 

And  kindled  hot  the  blush  of  shame, 
When  at  some  heartbreak  overglad, 

And  gave  me  praise  instead  of  blame, 
And  love  when  I  was  sad  V 

And  when  fair  women  led  me  on, 

In  spite  of  all  my  struggling  still, 
And  tricked  me  by  the  light  that  shone 


56  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Within  her  eye  —  a  snake's  eye  till 
I  turned  to  you  and  then  was  gone  — 
You  banned  the  peevish  ill. 

You  told  me  other  men  had  slipped 
Within  the  noose  of  wily  maid: 

That  better  men  had  withered  nipped 
By  frosty  word's  unsighted  blade. 

And  howsoe'er  my  wings  be  clipped, 
I  should  not  be  afraid. 

I  am  forbid  to  take  your  hand 
And  look  into  your  tender  eye  ; 

I  am  forbid  to  seek  your  band 

And  laugh  with  you  or  with  you  sigh, 

To  revel  in  the  midnight  land 
As  once,  both  you  and  I. 

But  in  some  time  not  far  away 
I'll  call  and  ask  for  you  again. 

And  look  into  your  face  and  say 
What  now  I  think  with  constant  pain, 

And  at  that  time  I  hope  and  pray 
I  may  not  love  in  vain. 


A  MOOD  OF  MINE.  57 


A  MOOD  OF  MINE. 

My  soul  is  like  a  morning  dim, 

When  clouds  beset  the  sun, 
Or  when  the  sylvan  choral  hymn 

Is  hushed,  ere  half  begun, 
By  squawking  rooks  that  mock  the  run 
Of  avian  song. 

The  light  my  eyes  desired  to  see 

Is  darkened,  and  the  day 
Is  murk  and  sodden.     Ah!  from  me 

Is  happiness  astray. 
Though  other  things  seem  glad  and  gay, 
I  must  be  sad. 

And  should  I  speak  the  word  "  Farewell !  " 

Pronounce  my  constant  doom, 
And  toll  the  dullard  groaning  bell 

While  her  no  griefs  consume, 
Aye,  beg  the  bondage  of  the  tomb 
To  prove  my  woe? 

Which  is  the  best — to  die  or  live? 

Because  my  hope  is  lost, 
Because  I  get  not  what  I  give, 

When  life  is  overcrossed, 
And  every  wish  is  bandied,  tossed 
About  the  time. 

"  Seek  home  within  anpther  heart; 

Another  can  be  found ! ' ' 
Pooh!  so  they  say;  but  I've  no  art 

To  thrid  a  mazy  round, 
Pretending  that  my  heart  is  sound 
That  festers  yet. 


58  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


OH,  THAT  I  COULD  FORGET! 

Oh,  that  I  could  forget  thy  face, 

So  sadly  sweet  and  sweetly  sad, 
So  touched  with  kindliness  and  grace, 
Though  ignorant  of  what  is  glad. 

I  hardly  knew  thee  very  well, 
But  knew  enough  to  love  thee  much, 

For  o'er  me  strong  there  came  a  spell  — 
Unbroken  yet:  ne'er  felt  I  such. 

I  met  thee  once;  long  years  have  gone 
Since  then,  but  here  I  guard  thee  still: 

The  storied  page  runs  runic  on, 
All  blank  to  me  or  written  ill. 

Because  it  tells  me  naught  of  thee 
Since  last  I  saw  thee  young  and  fair, 

When  all  the  cheer  of  youth  would  be 
Like  sunlight  round  thee  everywhere. 

Thou  fledst  away.     No  more  I  saw 
Thy  happy  mien,  thy  harmless  guile, 

But  yet  I   feel  a  sort  of  awe 
Upon  me  from  thine  earliest  smile. 

I  reck  the  bar  that  stands  between 
All  honest  thought  by  me  of  thee, 

But  sometimes  sin  so  much,  I  ween, 
To  wish  it  broken  down  for  me. 


SORROW.  59 


SORROW. 

O  Sorrow,  yew- wreathed,  how  divine  art  thou  ! 
The  sinful  soul  thou  chastenest,  and  a  ray 
From  out  thy  seeming  dark  brings  light  like  day 
To  him  thou  seemst  with  burdens  sore  to  bow. 
And  why  should  man  lament  because  his  brow 
With  light  of  darkness  born  grows  bright  enow? 
Yet  who  weeps  not  if  thou  in  wandering  stop 
And  point  with  finger  wan  to  Aidenn's  spot  ? 
The  pomp  and  flashing  of  the  thoughtless  world. 
Beauteous  ih  being,  fading  steal  away 
Some  peace;  but  thou  dost  know  this  scene  enfurled 
With  pain,  the  smile  but  feigning  tears  to  stay. 
Still,  most  would  will  the  far  Eternal  hurled 
From  mind  to  spend  at  ease  a  passing  day. 


60  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THRENODY. 

Silent  the  night,  and  the  heaven  far 
Looks  sad  on  the  earth  and  the  sea; 

Dolesome  the  vault:  no  firstling  star 
Peeps  out  like  a  spark  o'er  the  lea. 

For  Death  has  taken  my  child  away, 
Has  stolen  my  half-blown  flower, 

But  he  can  not  filch  the  bud  today 
That  opens  on  memory's  bower. 

Methinks  I  see  her  now  adown, 
Where  romps  the  playful  brook, 

Sportive  around  the  rough  rocks  brown, 
And  mischief  in  her  look. 

My  plaintive  soul  is  filled  with  woe, 
Though  smiles  begem  the  wold, 

Though  gambols  now  the  soft-eyed  doe. 
And  hushed  the  bell  that  tolled. 

The  moon  is  just  as  mild  as  then, 

The  sun  as  lusty  still, 
And  meads  put  on  their  gayest  when 

There's  springtime  on  the  hill. 

The  birds  sing  out  as  joyfully 

In  willows  by  the  stream, 
And  carol  lays  of  love  to  me, 

Like  music  of  a  dream. 


THRENODY.  61 


But  always  I  refuse  to  care 

For  gladness  of  the  earth, 
For  fragrance  in  the  morning  air, 

And  sprightliness  of  mirth. 

It  matters  not,  I  cannot  reck 
What  is,  but  what  has  been, 

Although  the  past  comes  at  my  beck 
And  scatters  where  I  'gleam. 

The  more  it  speaks  of  pleasant  things 

I  knew  in  other  times, 
And  joys  that  yet  may  come  on  wings, 

'Mid  happy  sounding  chimes, 

Dead  murky  mists  like  witches  troop 

Around  me  in  the  gloom, 
And  half-born  hopings  broken  droop 

And  haunt  my  lonely  room. 

The  past  I  ne'er  can  send  away; 

I  love  it  more  than  life; 
The  love  that  died  yet  lives  today, 

Through  struggle  and  through  strife. 

The  loving  heart  once  sorrow-clad, 
Bereft  of  childhood's  bloom, 

There  is  no  skill  to  make  it  glad, 
Except  caressing  gloom. 

No  earthly  hope,  no  baby  smile, 

No  melody  is  near, 
But  tells  of  one's  benignant  guile, 

That  now  no  more  is  here; 


62  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

But  tells  of  soft,  endearing  bliss, 
The  coo,  the  lisp,  the  word, 

Of  lips  that  gave  the  honied  kiss, 
The  voice  henceforth  unheard. 


LULLABY.  63 


LULLABY. 

Oh,  Love,  they  tell  me  thou  art  sweet, 
They  tell  me  thou  art  pure, 

And  yet  the  smiles  of  woman  fleet, 
When  baby's  smiles  allure. 

For  I  have  known  the  frenzied  flame 

That  woman  lit  in  me, 
But  now  I  mourn  the  mortal  shame, 

Its  reckless  infamy. 

But  in  the  child  that  chuckles  low, 
Upon  my  bounding  knee, 

There  is  a  love  benign  to  know, 
Felicity  for  me. 

Then  sing  my  little  prattler,  sing! 

Thy  coo  has  kindled  joy; 
No  guile  is  in  thee,  little  thing, 

Satiety,  nor  cloy. 

Ah,  would  thy  mother  she  were  here 

To  share  my  nightly  bliss, 
And  charm  away  thy  lonesome  tear 

With  her  maternal  kiss. 

She  will  not  come  though  I  have  sworn 

The  past  should  be  forgot, 
And  all  my  ancient  wrath  and  scorn 

Her  feebleness  begot. 


64  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Then  coo,  my  little  bantling,  coo, 
And  swing  upon  my  knee, 

These  moments  all  were  born  and  grew 
For  our  glad  minstrelsy. 

I  loved  thy  mother,  oh,  how  well! 

But  she  has  gone  away: 
All  muffled  is  the  marriage  bell, 

And  bleak  would  be  the  day, 

If  thou  shouldsthush  thy  lisping  song. 

Like  flute  notes  heard  afar, 
And  quench  thy  light  that  leans  along 

The  dark,  thou  single  star. 


A  DRINKING   SONG  65 


A  DRINKING  SONG. 

Fill,  fill  the  wine-cup  full! 
Let  it  laugh  in  the  face  of  youth  and  maid ! 
It  is  rich  as  rubies  and  soft  as  wool! 

Let  its  lush,  red  lip  to  the  girlish  dip, 
For  there's  cheer  in  it  for  the  shy  and  staid ! 

Ah,  there's  the  rhythm  of  song; 
There  poetry  quaffs  the  spirit  that  plays. 
And  there  is  the  fun  of  the  noisy  throng! 

It  weaves  the  spell  of  the  dance  and  well, 
It  moves  coy  feet  like  the  bold  along. 

And  why  should  we  shun  it  at  all? 
For  a  measure  of  wine  the  Son  of  God 
Delivered  the  might  which  was  held  in  thrall; 

It  was  then  began  the  Sorrowful  Man 
The  work  of  restoring  the  human  clod. 

Why  should  we  dread  its  power? 
What  else  has  made  such  masterly  fest  and  feat? 
It  gladdens  the  day  for  it  speeds  the  hour, 

And  it  coaxes  hope  back  to  the  brain  again. 
When  trouble  has  banished  it  off  of  its  beat. 

And  grant  it  has  done  some  hurt! 
But  prayer  has  vanquished  a  glorious  mind, 
And  love  has  begotten  the  noisome  flirt. 

You  must  treat  the  wine  like  a  gift  devine — 
God's  gifts  were  never  for  trouble  designed. 


66  SONGS   FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


TO  MY  WATCH. 

No  more,  young  moments,  down  the  watch's  face 
Sluggishly  drip,  but  like  some  tide-chased  brook, 
By  stormy  wind  pursued,  affrighted  look 
And  flee.     I  scan  thy  face,  an  open  book. 
And  think  I  read.     Thy  dial  shades  I  trace 
Chill  tremblingly,  and  fear  lest  thou  enlace 
False  seeming  in  thy  cozy  ingle-nook. 

Thy  truth  I  doubt;  thy  fair  outspeech  I  fear, 
Question  each  hint,  each  signaled  statement  deem 
The  outer  garb  of  hidden  lies  ateem, 
With  ensign  fair,  the  pirate's  pennon's  stream 
Upon  the  air.    And  thus  from  early  morn  I  dream: 
Thus  at  noon  and  onward  do  I  pensive  peer 
At  every  turn,  and  doubt  howe'er  thou  veer, 
Because  so  slow  thy  moment-children  seem. 

But  thus  it  is  forever  when  the  mind 
Doth  bear  the  burden  of  a  special  hour, 
When  one  is  wont  to  visit  lady's  bower, 
Or  waits  his  lady's  entrance  with  a  flower. 
No  matter  how  devoted  thou  doth  grind 
The  tiny  grains  of  day,  thy  work  assigned, 
Thou  art  no  more  trustworthy  than  a  Giaour. 


SYMPTOMS.  67 


SYMPTOMS. 

I  know  no  rest,  and  though  some  skill 
Could  heal  forthwith  the  wound  I  know, 
And  though  I  felt  the  pang  must  kill, 
I  would  not  bid  it  go. 

What  if  the  harrying,  glad  ill  ease 
Of  hope  and  doubting,  joyous  woe, 
By  some  deft  spell  I  could  appease? 
I'd  keep  it  hid  below. 

Though  all  my  days  with  languor  droop, 
Though  all  my  nights  dream-tortured  flow, 
And  though  throughout  them  phantoms  troop, 
I'd  rather  have  it  so. 

Though  haggard  wanness  with  me  sate, 
And  palsied  fetters  cramped  me,  oh, 
And  thou  shouldst  point  the  open  gate, 
I  would  not,  would  not  go. 

Until  thou  tell  me,  "Nay  in  vain 
Thy  hope  is  born,  thy  loving  woe," 
Until  thou  send  me  forth  again, 
I  do  not  choose  to  go. 


68  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


TO  FRANCES  FOLSOM  CLEVELAND. 


(Written  to  be  pronounced  by  Miss  M.  O'Brien,  of  Lynchburg,  Virginia,  on 
the  occasion  of  a  visit  expected  from  Mrs.  Cleveland.  March  2, 1888.) 


What  need  have  we  to  tell  our  ceaseless  thanks, 
When  all  the  agents  of  the  mighty  mind, 

Fulfill  our  wish,  and  by  old  James's  banks 
In  songs  it  sounds  and  rises  on  the  wind. 

The  woodland's  purred  and  soft,  harmonious  lay 
To  listening  cloud  unfolds  the  potent  spell, 

And  night  is  married  to  the  blushing  day 
By  fire's  glow  and  glory  of  the  bell. 

We  ship  our  gladness  on  the  burdened  gale, 
And  down  the  garnished  stream  it  tacks  and  veers; 

It  flaunts  its  colors  bright  on  every  sail, 
On  every  cockleshell  that  stands  or  steers. 

Throughout  the  land,  on  mountain  high  or  hill, 
In  valley  deep  or  dingle  stooping  down, 

The  note  is  varied,  but  the  votive  will 
Moves  all  for  her.  the  queen  without  a  crown. 

Go,  river  James,  and  to  thy  children  all, 
That  busy  come  caressing  to  thy  side, 

Recite  in  murmured  joyaunce  every  call 
That  wakes  the  echoes  on  thy  panting  tide : 

Go  with  thy  wealth  of  rapture  to  the  mead, 
And  pour  the  flooding  pleasure  from  thy  breast; 


TO  FRANCES  FOLSOM  CLEVELAND.  69 

Go  to  the  woods  and  fill  their  sylvan  creed 
With  her,  of  womanhood,  like  Mary,  blest. 

And  noise  abroad  the  radiant  queen  has  come 
Among  thy  hills  to  greet  her  children  here, 

Where  strikes  the  bugle  blast,  and  rolls  the  drum, 
And  palpitates  the  conscious  atmosphere. 

Ye,  peaks  of  Otter  whom  ambition  swells 
Up  to  the  racetrack  where  the  planets  course, 

Hear  ye,  the  din  and  rumble  of  the  bells, 

The  shouts  of  men  and  merry  neigh  of  horse;* 

To  you  in  pride  of  heart  we  used  to  point, 
And  called  you  our  twin  sentinels  before, 

Today  we  banish  you;  today  anoint 
Another  pride,  though  you  the  snub  deplore. 

The  stars  peep  out,  the  bashful  moon  comes  forth — 
Perhaps  the  sun  regrets  his  sway  is  o'er — 

The  compass  star  that  sparkles  in  the  north, 
Ts  brighter  yet  and  seems  to  brighten  more. 

When  nature  doth  such  ecstacy  confess, 
Should  man  withold  the  symbols  of  his  joy? 

Ring  out,  brass  bells,  nor  screech  ye  whistles,  less: 
Excess  cannot  befall,  nor  could  it  cloy. 

Pray,  lady,  let  my  feeble  voice  be  heard, 
An  emphasis  like  that  which  silence  makes, 

To  knit  the  speech  or  show  the  pregnant  word; 
'Tis  worth  but  little  more  than  snowy  flakes. 

Attuned  into  the  chorus  of  this  wold, 
My  note  of  welcome  list;  in  me  sing  all, 


70  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

The  babe,  the  youth,  the  mother  frail  and  old, 
And  manhood's  swelling  sound  outbursting  thrall. 

Welcome,  thou,  whom  hearts  have  yearned  for  long: 
Thy  sunny  smile  the  spark  announced  before! 

Welcome!  the  heights  cry  out  aloud  and  long. 
Here  is  our  home;  its  wealth  is  all  thy  store. 

Welcome  again!  ten  thousand  welcomes  lift, 
Ye,  who  around  stand  with  the  fix6d  eye: 

Welcome  again!  ten  thousand  welcomes'  gift 
Is  scant  for  her  for  whom  the  cities  vie. 

Welcome  again!  ten  thousand  welcomes  pour! 

Shout  ye  people  loud;  raise  the  rousing  roar! 
The  heavens  give  back  the  sound  that  rose  before. 

Welcome  we  give;  we  cannot  give  you  more. 


CARMELITA.  71 


CARMELITA. 

Though  she  is  not  as  beautiful  as  night, — 

And  yet  she  is,  I  swear, — 
In  all  my  dreamed  perfection  is  she  dig-lit: 
A  countenance  as  fresh  as  orchids  and  as  rare, 
Painting  of  the  Autumn  there; 
Semblance  of  the  evening  is  her  hair; 
New-blown  roses  dimmer  than  her  cheek: 
And  her  smiles  are  like  the  incense    kind  of  prayer. 
She's  a  crystal  in  her  innocent  delight, 
A  shapen  thought  divine, 
A  music  to  the  sight, 
And  as  playful  as  the  fay  that  laughs  in  wine. 


72  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


INCONSTANCY'S  CONFESSION. 

Say,  tell  me  dear  one,  is  it  sin 

That  I  forgot  a  little  time, 
How  I  delighted  was  within 

Thy  beauty's  balmy,  sunny  clime. 

Unfair  the  man  that  can  forget, 
In  newer  glory,  what  is  past; 

Nathless  thy  tears  and  sighs  and  fret 
To  those  like  me  who  love  the  last. 

Here  do  I  own  the  sin's  full  scope: 

I  fell  away  without  regret, 
Forsook  the  tenderness  of  hope 
Which  maybe  you  would  give  me  yet. 

Believe  at  least  I  think  of  thee: 
The  flesh  is  false;  the  soul  is  true; 

For  in  the  flesh  can  never  be 
The  firm  devotion  that  is  due. 

And  in  the  midnight's  dungeon  hour, 
When  sleep  should  fold  diurnal  care, 

I  stare  awake,  and  thou  the  flower, 
That  blooms  like  hope  upon  despair. 

Thou  art  the  fancied  form  that  stands 
Against  my  troubled  couch  at  watch, 

While  drip  the  hasty  fateful  sands, 
Scoring  the  moments  notch  by  notch. 

But  after  all  it  is  the  same, 
Whether  we  love  or  simply  feign; 

Well-love  we  might,  but  this  the  blame, 
No  fellow-feeling  did  we  deign. 


HOPE.  73 


HOPE. 


Hope  like  a  little  bird 

Flieth  between 
Life  and  the  voices  heard 

Over  the  screen, 
Telling  in  pretty  word, 
Telling  the  truth  averred, 

Centuries  been. 

Say,  does  the  demon,  Death, 

Win  over  all? 
Lieth  the  soul  beneath 

Funeral  pall? 

Not  the  clod,  'tis  the  breath 
That  mysical  hovereth, 

Bodies  that  fall. 

Sure  there  is  hid  away, 

Deep  in  this  shrine, 
Something  not  of  a  day 

Fevered  like  wine. 
Eye-spark  that  burns  away, 
Cheek  like  the  vermeil  May, 

Death  it  is  thine. 

What  if  the  gospel  fail, 

God  be  a  dream! 
Ne'er  did  dream  so  avail 

Bountiful  theme, 
Sooth  this  inncessant  gale, 
Life,  with  its  swish  and  wail, 

Noisy  and  breme. 


74  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


ON  RETURNING  TO  ST.  CHARLES. 

I'm  back  again!   I'm  back  again! 

How  glad  my  pulses  beat! 
I've  come  to  loose  my  heart  from  bane. 

Here  at  my  Lady's  feet. 

I'm  back  again!  I'm  back  again! 

Why  should  I  weep  the  past? 
Can  sorrow  circle  near  this  fane, 

O'er  my  pleased  soul  at  last. 

I'm  back  again!  I'm  back  again! 

Oh,  how  the  heart-throb  thrills! 
Now  gone  the  storm-cloud's  pelting  rain. 

And  come  the  bathing  rills. 

I'm  back  again!     I'm  back  again! 
I'm  back  again,  I'm  back  again! 

And  sit  near  peace  alone, 
And  hear  it  whisper  o'er  the  grain: 

"Weep  now  no  more  nor  groan.'' 

I'm  back  again,  I'm  back  again! 

Safe  from  the  lashing  surge! 
Broken  the  bondage,  snapped  the  chain, 
.    Silent  the  whining  dirge! 

I'm  back  again!     I'm  back  again! 

Calm  and  soothed  to  rest, 
Uplifting  a  hymn  o'er  the  bier  of  pain, 

Dead  in  my  gladdened  breast. 


ON  RETURNING  TO   ST.   CHARLES.  75 

I  know  the  distant  world  is  vain, 

And  bide  with  peace  alone, 
Hearing  its  voice  behind  the  grain: 

"Weep  now  no  more  nor  moan." 


76  SONGS   FROM  THE  BLACK    MESA. 


MOTHER  MARY. 

0  Mother  Mary,  teach  to  me 
The  trail  to  Virtue's  lodge, 

And  teach  me  how  the  sin  to  dodge 
That  dogs  my  steps  tonight. 

1  strive,  I  strain,  I  groan,  O  see 
Of  fight  how  full  I  am! 

To  Satan  I'm  a  weakly  lamb 
Without  some  help  to  fight. 

Then  smile  thy  spirit  into  me. 
For  sword  and  glaive  and  shield, 
And  I  shall  strew  the  battle-field 

With  all  the  fiends  I  smite, 

Then,  Mother  Mary,  smile  on  me 

A  blessing  for  the  fray: 

Thy  Son  will  have  the  glory,  yea, 
And  thou  wilt  share  aright. 


CUPID'S   SHOT.  77 


CUPID'S  SHOT. 

A  pleasant  pain  o'erwhelms  me, 
And  whirring  to  my  soul 

Makes  me  know  a  heaven  ere  a  death. 
I  would  give  my  latest  breath 
To  sip  there  at  that  bowl 
That's  moulded  of  thy  mouth. 
In  the  languor  of  the  south, 
Where  Cupid  bends  his  bow  right  rogueishly. 

You  know  not  nor,  though  fain  I'd  tell, 

Shall  I  the  secret  speakji 
Hate  might  live  where  once  was  hope, 

Disaster  seek  me  where  I  grope, 

Timid  lover  like  a  sneak. 

'Tis  better  far  to  know 

Naught  for  sure  than  conscious  go 
All  disillusioned  down  to  hopeless  hell. 


78  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

Last  night  I  saw  thy  college,  Charles, 
Rise  graceful  from  the  oaken  gnarls 
That  hang  like  fawning  courtiers  round. 
Amid  the  spheric  swishing  sound, 
Thy  praises  swelled  in  sylvan  song, 
Like  organ  numbers  urged  along. 
The  breathing  of  the  breezes  there 
Intoned  a  chant  upon  the  air. 
The  music  seemed  yEolian  sped 
To  charm  the  darkness  overhead, 
That  fell  around  thee  like  the  stole 
The  priest  puts  on  when  some  poor  soul 
Has  quit  its  earthly  shrine  at  last 
And  left  behind  it  but  the  past. 
And  long  the  forest  echoes  roll, 
From  every  tree  exacting  toll, 
Till  every  bush  and  boxwood  brake 
A  sweeter  rondel  tries  to  wake, 
Till  every  leaf  its  harpstrings  brushed, 
And  all  the  elfin  sneers  were  hushed. 
Thy  noble  head  was  held  aloft, 
And  gazed  beyond  the  minster  croft: 
The  timid-looking  purpling  hills, 
Which  seemed  expecting  promised  ills, 
Crept  slowly  to  thy  footstool  there, 
With  lowly  head  and  servile  air, 
Then  rose  as  if  a  kindly  word 
Had  taught  them  all  how  much  they  erred. 
The  more  I  looked  the  more  the  thought 
That  fairy  hands  had  on  thee  wrought 
The  glowing  spell  that  lit  thy  face, 
And  threw  a  rapture  round  the  place, 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

Upon  me  grew  unconsciously, 

As  gladness  does  and  minstrelsy. 

And  then  again  the  dreamy  loom 

Wove  all  about  a  sort  of  gloom. 

Adown  I  walked  thy  sounding  halls, 

Which  started  quick  at  my  footfalls, 

And  seemed  a  thousand  ghosts  to  bring 

Upon  my  passage  clamoring, 

With  hollow  voice  and  rasping  laugh, 

Like  drunken  witches  when  they  quaff 

Their  wonted  draught  at  dark  of  moon, 

Beneath  the  willows,  while  they  croon 

Their  dismal  music  to  the  sound 

Of  crackling  embers  on  the  ground. 

Yet  onward  swift  the  dark  I  cleft, 

Flinging  to  right  hand  and  to  left, 

With  constant  wish  to  keep  behind 

The  forms  fantastic  to  my  mind. 

At  last  I  reached  the  plain  below, 

To  where  thy  childnen  gladly  go 

To  seek  a  wintry  pastime,  free 

From  praying  task  and  psaltery, 

The  class  room  dull,  the  studyhall, 

The  diningroom,  the  bedroom,  all 

The  little  things  that  made  up  life. 

Which  clanging  bell,  just  like  a  knife, 

Divided  into  slices — gong 

That  measured  duties,  short  or  long. 

The  maxims  in  that  barren  room, 

The  moonbeams  struggling  through  the  womb 

Of  darkness,  big  with  half-felt  fears, 

And  creatures  of  the  impish  meres, 

I  scarce  can  read,  but  loose  the  sigh, 

And  heave  the  breast,  as  each  scene  nigh, 

Not  well  deciphered,  calls  to  yiew 

The  vanished  faces  that  I  knew. 

And  now  I  stand  and  pensive  mope 


80  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Beside  the  doors  that  outward  ope 

Upon  the  campus  where  the  games 

And  gambols  boyish  spirit  claims, 

Once  used  to  be,  when  I  was  young, 

Where  many  stingless  jests  were  sprung, 

Where  college  pranks  and  college  glees, 

Were  played  or  sung  beneath  the  trees. 

I  thought  of  many  a  victory  won, 

Where  vanquished,  when  the  fight  was  done, 

To  victor  came,  the  hand  held  out, 

In  honor  of  the  finished  bout. 

And  many  a  feat  accomplished  there 

No  record  knows,  but  if  the  air 

Could  tell  it  all  throughout  the  world. 

Of  jump  excelling,  hammer  hurled, 

The  sportsmen  would  the  prowess  laud, 

And  print  it  in  the  press  abroad. 

But  back  upon  the  corridor, 

Where  often  in  the  days  of  yore, 

The  feet  of  holy  priests  have  sped, 

On  many  an  errand  duty-led, 

Where  many  a  youth  excited  glowed 

At  tales  of  lands  with  heathens  sowed, 

Where  the  Paynim  pauses  in  prayer 

His  brawny  breast  with  zeal  to  tear, 

Where  the  Hottentot  basks  away 

In  torrid  clime  his  carnal  day, 

And  the  Ethiop  mute  before  his  God, 

Uplifts  the  soul  of  prayer,  the  rod. 

There  many  a  boy  has  tacit  sworn 

His  future  to  the  Afric  bourne, 

To  bring  the  darkened  man  again 

Back  to  the  God  who  once  had  been 

His  solace  in  the  pasture  land, 

Beyond  the  Jordan's  fruitful  strand. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  81 

Thus  far  I  dreamed  without  disgust. 

The  ugly  priest  that  grinned,  a  rust 

On  human  nature,  not  yet  had  stuck 

His  cassock  on  the  scene.     'Twas  luck 

For  me  to  go  so  far  without 

The  torment  of  his  face  about, 

Intruding  like  an  omen  ill 

Human  garbage  and  human  swill, 

Fashioned  to  scare  a  child  at  play, 

Or  fright  the  goblins  damned  away, 

Red  like  a  hunk  of  fresh-killed  beef, 

Without  a  trait  to  give  relief, 

Meagre  and  gaunt,  and  false  and  cold, 

A  living  sin,  a  virtue  sold, 

A  sordid  heart,  athirst  for  praise, 

A  scrivener  of  rondelays, 

And  puling  sonnets  that  made  the  moon 

As  crazy  as  a  sorry  loon, 

So  long  as  he  could  have  it  rhyme, 

With  anything,  whate'er  the  chime. 

Behold  the  fustain  sonneteer, 

Whose  ravings  rhyme  with  blear  and  leer, 

Whose  metaphor  is  clearly  drunk< 

Or  redolent  of  "hoppy"  bunk, 

Whose  rhythm  has  a  bible-back, 

With  many  a  rip  and  many  a  crack, 

Whose  puny  thoughts  wrapped  up  in  prose 

Would  do  dishonor  to  their  clothes. 

And  while  he  prates  of  Keats  and  Poe, 

Those  gentlemen  he  pesters  so, 

That  were  they  here  again  they'd  go, 

In  self-protection  down  below. 

Unfrock  his  lay  desquamative, 

The  wretched  rhymster  could  not  live; 

Or  brush  his  furfuraceous  prose. 

And  he  will  sink  into  a  dose, 

And  cease  the  literary  throes 


82  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Which  have  exuded  odes  by  scores 

Less  literary  than  his  snores. 

The  pimples  on  his  muse's  face 

Are  acne  of  the  blood's  disgrace. 

How  can  a  muse  begotten  so 

Expect  to  hide  the  horrid  woe, 

Its  sire  sends  as  heritage 

Along  the  veins  from  age  to  age, 

For  poetasts  to  slobber  "slick" 

Upon  the  page  when  they  are  sick, 

With  fevers  called  the  scribbler's  itch, 

Or  prurience,  I  can't  say  which. 

And  when  he  taught  the  English  class, 

With  critiques  wild  he  played  the  ass. 

Perhaps  he  heard  of  critic's  pen, 

And  sidled  "slommick"  from  his  den 

To  show  the  boys  what  master  mind 

Was  in  his  noddle  snug  confined. 

So,  on  the  margin  of  the  sheet 

A  scurfy  line,  that  smelled  of  peat, 

He  scrawled,  rejoiced,  elate  to  tease 

The  boyish  author,  and  to  please 

His  ripe  taste  for  cacophonies. 

Yes,  scrofulous,  scorbutic  he, 

In  soul  he  was  especially. 

In  case  a  dog  should  chance  to  bark, 

At  once  was  lit  his  witty  spark, 

And  language  that — but  I'll  shut  up — 

He  shouted  out  and  shamed  the  pup. 

And  this  was  wit  he  thought.     Alas! 

That  such  abortion  came  to  pass. 

I  tell  the  truth  of  me  he  made 

His  special  butt.     Indeed  he  flayed 

Me  till  he  tired,  and  as  I  was 

A  student  then — how  much  undoes, 

A  goodly  work,  a  silly  one— 

To  serve  my  God  I  had  begun 


RETROSPECTIVE.  83 

The  priestly  role  to  undertake. 

But  he  had  nearly  made  a  rake 

Of  me  by  gibe  unkind  and  mean 

That  cut  me  like  a  rapier  keen. 

The  killing  vengeance  of  would  seize 

And  urge  me  on  by  slow  degrees 

To  nick  his  heart  degenerate  hid 

Beneath  a  vellum  frame,  and  did 

The  will  divine  recant  its  law 

A  moment,  free  from  checking  awa, 

I  had  dug  the  poinard  to  the  hilt 

That  it  might  reach  the  seat  of  guilt, 

Or  sped  the  leaden  missile  swift, 

To  gloat  upon  the  gaping  rift 

It  made.     But  it  was  not  to  be, 

And  I  am  glad  exultingly. 

Let  him,  who  will,  distrust  my  word, 

But  hold  his  peace  intent  and  surd. 

Scorn  not  a  transmutated  man, 

Lest  danger  dog  your  path,  and  span 

Your  life  with  fear.     And  oh,  to  you, 

Whom  once  I  knew  and  loving  knew 

As  faithful  friends,  and  tried  and  true, 

Accept  my  song  with  patient  smile 

Nor  curl  your  lip  in  scorn  the  while. 

Out  of  a  bosom  really  good, 

Make  not  th'  unkindness  hatch  that  would, 

But  if  a  prayer  is  sleeping  there, 

Awake  it  for  its  strengthening  care. 

My  lay  breaks  forth  from  out  the  gloom 

Of  purpose  missed,  and  in  its  room 

Is  nothing  left  but  anguish  keen 

And  sullen  grief  for  what  has  bean. 

My  former  aim  I  constant  shun, 

As  constant  seek  another  one, 

As  once  the  other  firm  I  sought. 

And  who  will  say  I  have  been  taught 


84  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

A  better  way?    Unto  the  priest 

I  looked  for  model  or,  at  least, 

A  being  filled  with  sweet  and  mild, 

Uplifting  of  the  soul,  and  wiled 

I  was  of  all  my  fondest  hope. 

I  saw  th'  anointed  creature  mope 

Along  with  head  unfinished,  bald, 

Bereft  of  hair  as  if  the  scald 

Of  steam  had  stung  and  marked  him  well, 

A  brand  enregistered  of  hell, 

Save  o'er  the  ears  where  bristles  spread, 

Expand  anomalous.     Tiie  head, 

Of  horrent  make,  peeps  out  uncouth, 

A  parody  on  beauteous  youth, 

A  nasty  image,  coarse  and  red, 

As  if  to  noggins  it  were  wed, 

And  supped,  a  vicious,  drunken  god 

Of  wine,  with  clusters  on  a  rod. 

Behold  the  body !     and  the  heart 

Of  dreader  aspect,  and  the  mart 

Of  all  crude  passions  dressed  in  wit, 

Fetid  in  smell,  erotic.     It 

Exhaled  a  stink  like  sulphur  burned, 

And  every  normal  stomach  turned. 

And  on  the  chin — a  porcupine 

Would  never  wear  such  beard  as  thine! 

And  sure  such  stiffness  could  not  grow, 

Except  from  rocky  subsoil.     Go, 

Thou  filthy  libel  on  the  race, 

To  speak  but  of  thy  form's  disgrace, 

To  wallowing  swine,  from  which  has  sprung 

The  ruck  that  oozes  from  thy  tongue! 

Revile  your  kind,  and  do  not  seek, 

Among  the  godlike  human,  freak 

Of  tortured  nature,  thus  to  wreak 

Avengeance  for  thy  fate,  nor  me 

Select  for  putrid  belch  of  thee! 


RETROSPECTIVE.  85 

I  looked  upon  the  priest  to  tell 

Me  how  to  save  my  soul  from  hell; 

To  call  with  suasive  voice  from  deeds 

Or  haunts  Satanic,  not  sow  seeds 

Despondent  in  my  breast,  and  force 

My  path  awry.     The  gentle  horse 

Is  led  astray,  rejects  the  rein, 

When  wrongly  ruled  and  lashed  again. 

And  hurls  the  testy  rider  down. 

Why  etch  the  unaccustomed  frown 

Upon  the  mild  unruffled  brow, 

Induce -no  thought  but  vengeance  now. 

I  thought  to  have  my  soul,  instinct 

With  virtue,  grow  apace,  so  linked 

Unto  the  sanctity  I  dreamed 

Dwelled  with  the  priest,  and  blessing  beamed 

Around  him  like  a  softened  light, 

That  glorifies  the  shades  of  night. 

But  I  was  chastened  sadly  when 

My  primal  gaze,  of  blackrobed  men 

Selected  him,  this  wretched  one, 

Especially  to  fall  upon, 

Whose  twisted  figure,  like  a  rope, 

Hung  loose,  and  looked  a  carnal  trope, 

Where  yet  survived  the  brutish  snarl, 

Hyena  grin  at  simian  quarrel, 

Without  a  trace  of  godlike  stamp — 

A  mental  quack  and  moral  tramp. 

And  yet  I  bore,  and  fetched  my  strength 

The  past  to  blink,  forgot  at  length 

What  I  had  suffered,  (kept  no  tab) 

The  ruthless  jest  and  endless  gab.  , 

One  fatal  day  a  pun  he  shot 

That  hit  me  in  a  tender  spot, 

And  hurried  through.     But  had  he  ceased 

To  worry  me,  and  not  increased 

His  morbid  pleasure  at  the  blush 


86  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

He  gave  my  cheek,  there  would  be  hush 
Of  all  my  plaint  and  all  my  hate, 
Beginning  at  that  very  date. 
But  he  was  vain  to  make  me  squirm, 
Like  beetle  in  the  burning  sperm. 
He  was  so  happy  at  success — 
A  giggling  devil  and  no  less — 
For  all  the  world  he  would  not  quit 
The  practice  of  his  slimy  wit. 
He  struck  today,  tomorrow  sneered, 
'  The  next  day  laughed  and  pulled  his  beard. 
So,  I  do  say  again,  the  soul 
Within  me  changed,  and  through  me  stole 
A  hatred  of  the  priest,  and  well 
I  loathe  the  horrid  thought.     A  hell 
He  built  in  me.     The  frequent  bell, 
Which  hailed  the  hours  as  they  came  fast, 
By  name,  and  ushered  to  the  past, 
To  store  their  varied  product  up, 
Perceived  from  me  a  mouldy  crop, 
A  wilted  harvest,  damp  and  rank, 
From  which  the  misty  vapors  stank. 
I  had  no  pleasure  in  my  work, 
Which  I  preferred  indeed  to  shirk, 
Because  I  needed  all  my  day, 
To  engineer  a  potent  way 
To  even  up  for  every  jab, 
For  every  unrequired  stab. 
I  hold  my  task  is  nearly  done: 
I'll  be  content  when  I  have  run 
The  gamut  through  from  do  to  si, 
In  this  avenging  melody. 
Perhaps  you  think  I'm  overglum, 
And  maybe  so,  but  hither  come, 
And  listen  to  my  cause  of  hate 
A  little  yet:  the  hour's  not  late: 
For  it  will  do  me  good  to  know 


RETROSPECTIVE.  87 

Another  hearkens  to  my  woe. 

I  think  that  I  can  prove  my  case 

Is  founded  on  sufficient  base. 

Let  no  demurrer  interpose 

To  hide  the  facts  for  which  I  rose. 

Had  I  been  like  to  other  boys, 

And  shared  their  pains  and  shared  their  joys, 

I  could  have  borne  with  easy  mind 

The  hurts  at  which  I  peaked  and  pined. 

But  shut  from  boyhood's  fun  I  spent 

My  moments  all  in  discontent, 

Compelled  to  shun  the  prankish  race, 

With  giggling  girls  I  had  to  chase, 

And  thus  perforce  I  did  contract 

Some  leaning  to  the  blushing  act, 

A  bashfulness  that  stung  my  face, 

The  where  it  would  the  maiden  grace. 

Had  he  been  kind  he  would  have  seen, 

The  anguish  in  the  pallid  mien: 

Had  he  been  good  he  would  have  tried 

To  cheer  me  up,  not  hurt  my  pride; 

Had  he  been  fair  he  would  have  known 

It  was  unjust  to  make  me  groan; 

Had  he  been  true,  he  would  have  helped 

Me  on,  not  at  my  efforts  yelped, 

Like  any  cur  that  frets  to  see 

Another  prosper  happily: 

Had  he  been  priest  in  very  truth, 

He  would  have  offered  to  my  youth. 

A  little  kindness,  little  ruth, 

Instead  of  throwing  mental  stones 

That  broke  my  spirit,  not  my  bones; 

Had  he  been  man  he  would  have  felt 

The  symptoms  of  it  in  his  pelt, 

The  flambeaux  would  have  left  his  face 

For  symbols  of  a  saving  grace; 

His  lips  had  covered  up  his  teeth, 


88  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  kept  his  fetid  breath  beneath. 
Now  tell  me  if  in  equal  strait, 
Tormented,  bothered  and  distrait, 
By  such  a  changeling  you  had  been, 
You  would  have  stood  his  antics  e'en 
As  well  and  patiently  as  I. 
Why  was  he  born?  I've  wondered  why. 
By  nature  I  was  wont  to  yield 
To  every  "tough"  that  pranked  afield, 
But  here  I  planted  firm  my  foot, 
And  firmly  here  I  buried  root. 
One  injury  I  could  not  bear, 
Beset  my  breast  uncovered  there, 
And  every  stanchion,  prop  and  stay  . 
Was  broken  from  its  bed  away. 
Contemned  my  efforts  for  my  God, 
This  fatal  man  spared  not  the  rod. 
To  friend  and  foe  he  called  me  lout, 
And  blandly  bowed  at  every  shout, 
The  gangrened  larynx  blurted  out. 
Whenever  he  got  "fresh"  and  "gay"' 
To  please  the  few  that  went  his  way. 
But  let  him  be.     Perhaps  he's  dead. 
God's  vengeance  fall  not  on  his  head! 
I  would  not  carry  horrid  hate 
Up  to  the  bright  eternal  gate, 
Nor  even  down  to  bounds  of  hell; 
If  there  he  be,  well,  I  say — well, 
I  don't  believe  he  suffers  much; 
I  don't  believe  he  needs  a  crutch 
To  help  him  o'er  the  heated  pave; 
He'll  like  it  too,  the  past-grand  knave. 
If  here,  within  the  inner  guild 
Of  hoggish  filthiness,  well  filled 
With  hog-wash,  does  he  moil  and  root 
In  mental  ordure,  with  his  snoot, 
Exceptionally  skilled  and  pat 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

For  dirty  business  such  as  that. 

A  brazen  ring  should  pierce  his  snout. 

To  haul  the  smutty  beast  about. 

An  offal-puking  pig  is  he, 

That  licks  his  vomit  lovingly. 

Behold  the  noble  King  of  Dirt. 

Within  the  kingdom  of  a  shirt! 

Bow  down  your  heads  and  kiss  the  ground! 

Bring  forth  the  bugles!     Let  them  sound! 

Ye  human  vultures,  pregnant  sluts, 

Delight  this  greasy  string  of  guts, 

For  he  is  chief  among  your  kind, 

The  Crown  Prince  for  the  lead  designed. 

A  lengthy  maggot  dwells  in  him, 

And  twists  its  dwelling,  loose  and  slim. 

But  let  it  be.     He  has  an  end; 

His  life  has  not  a  single  friend. 

It  is  a  pity  thus  to  shoot, 

Good  powder  into  such  a  brute. 

And  even  if  we  tried  to  wrest 

Him  from  the  vermin  in  his  breast, 

He'd  plead  with  us  to  let  them  stay 

And  pass  with  him  his  life  away. 

You  cannot  teach  the  crawling  snake 

To  cease  its  wriggling,  or  the  drake 

To  check  indecency  till  night, 

The  leper  to  keep  out  of  sight, 

The  sow  to  eat  with  knife  and  fork, 

The  freshet  mouth  to  fix  a  cork. 

You  cannot  change  the  leopard's  spots, 

By  saying  they  are  polka-dots; 

You  can  not  change  a  common  beast 

By  bidding  it  unto  a  feast. 

No  chemical  on  earth,  'tis  sad, 

Can  make  that  good  whose  nature's  bad; 

And  virtue  bold  can  not  break  in 

Through  scaly  tissue  of  the  skin 


90  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Of  putrid  man  to  fumigate 
The  stench  eternal  spilled  by  Fate. 
There  was  some  good  within  thy  wall. 
I've  now  expelled  my  anger  all, 
And  lay  aside  my  pen  of  gall. 

Dear  Father  Fontenot.  to  thee 

I  offer  homage  heartily. 

Whilst  to  the  earth  the  good  God  leaves 

Thy  soul  to  cheer  the  soul  that  grieves, 

Thy  heart  to  sympathize  with  those 

Who  bear  misfortune's  ruthless  blows, 

Thy  tear  to  mingle  with  the  tear 

That  sorrow  sheds  upon  a  bier, 

All  saints  have  not  to  heaven  gone, 

And  love  is  not  a  worthless  spawn 

Of  human  passion.     Ah,  dear  man, 

I  have  not  paid  thee,  never  can, 

One-half  the  gratitude  I  owe, 

For  at  thy  feet  I  have  let  flow 

The  troubles  of  my  fragile  life, 

And  thou  hast  taken  all  my  strife, 

And  borne  my  burdens  as  thy  own. 

My  priest  ideal,  the  good  seed  sown, 

Have  not  brought  forth  the  harvest  ripe, 

I  am  afraid,  of  which  the  type 

Thy  product  is,  and  though  'tis  true 

I  have  forgot,  I'll  try  anew 

To  walk  along  the  narrow  path 

Whose  exit  all  the  glories  hath 

Of  everlasting  otherwhere, 

Beyond,  on  high,  there,  over  there! 

Oh  Viget  de  Jalop  y  Squills, 

Oh  worsener  of  human  ills, 

Of  course  you  yet  the  boys  survive, 


RETROSPECTIVE.  91 

Those  whom  you  doctored  when  alive! 

And  still  in  English  Frenchified 

Do  you  the  classic  poets  chide? 

Undoubtedly.     I  almost  hear 

Your  curling  lip  evoke  a  sneer. 

But  you  were  not  "half  bad,"  dear  sir, 

Nor  on  the  plate  a  total  blur. 

Indeed,  perhaps  a  man  could  find, 

With  glass  especially  designed, 

A  virtue  bigger  than  a  pea 

Confined  by  your  periphery. 

And  likewise  it  is  true  indeed, 

A  microscope  might  straining  lead 

A  man  to  see  some  evil  thing 

In  you  some  larger  than  a  ling. 

So  fell  a  fright  was  Prefect  Schrantz 

That  every  student  in  his  pants 

Did  tremble  like  an  aspen  tree 

When  gusty  breezes  frolic  free, 

If  Schrantz's  falcon  glance  swooped  down 

From  lofty  turret,  college  crown, . 

Wherein  he  spent  a  spying  hour, 

Cross  and  cranky,  and  gruff  and  sour; 

Or  if  within  the  study-hall 

Like  bear  he  scowled  from  tribune  tall, 

Or  if  upon  the  campus  he 

Would  strut  like  King  of  Tragedy. 

His  mental  faculties  were  scant, 

And  what  he  had  were  slim  and  gaunt; 

Considered  as  an  animal, 

Of  vigor  he  was  prodigal. 

He  seemed  to  think  Americans 

Are  like  the  Dutch  or  "kids"  of  France, 

And  prosper  best  in  virtue's  field 

When  watched  by  spies.     Unless  he's  steeled 

In  that  respect,  I  would  advise 


92  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

That  if  he'd  trustful  shut  his  eyes, 

Our  honor  would  require  of  us 

Obedience  to  rule,  and  thus 

That  would  be  gained  which  had  been  lost, 

Obedience  boys  won't  give  when  bossed, 

And  followed  by  the  ratlike  eyes, 

The  proverb  sets  aside  for  spies. 

And  Pere  Denis,  I  wonder  where 

He  is;  a  kind  old  man,  whose  prayer 

Would  rise  to  heaven  high,  I  know, 

No  matter  who  implored  below, 

And  though  the  twenty-fifth  in  line 

On  earth,  the  first  before  the  shrine. 

He  thought  and  talked  and  wrote  in  Greek, 

And  for  a  change  would  Latin  speak, 

But  with  it  all  was  humble,  meek, 

A  fine  example  his  confreres 

Might  have  pursued  in  lieu  of  airs. 

His  body  was  a  shrunken  husk; 

For  him  life  had  become  a  dusk, 

When  last  I  saw  him  totter  down 

The  field  of  garden  truck  grown  brown 

With  age  and  wilted  just  the  same 

As  he.     I  think  I  strolled  beside 

Him  then.     Since  then  he  may  have  died, 

But  death  for  him  a  passport  had 

To  inner  kingdom  of  the  glad. 

And  I  remember  Father  Houch, 

A  German  good  but  somewhat  "rouch." 

He  bounced  me  from  the  class  one  day, 

Because  I  glanced  another  way 

Than  at  my  book — arithmetic 

I  guess — a  theme  that  made  me  sick. 

It  took  the  pleading  faculty 


RETROSPECTIVE.  93 

A  week  to  get  me  back.  Their  plea 
Was  I  was  young  and  did  not  know 
I  hurt  the  kind  professor  so. 

And  Father — let  me  see— yes,  Roux, 
As  cranky  as  a  broken  shoe; 
He  tried  to  sneer  a  little  bit, 
But  didn't  make  success  of  it. 

And  there  was  he,  the  gentle  Judge, 
Whose  harshest  word  resembled  fudge! 
His  utterance  was  a  sort  of  song, 
So  sweetly  flowed  his  speech  along. 
He  turned  his  head  to  every  side 
With  all  the  blushing  of  a  bride. 
And  down  he  cast  his  limpid  eyes; 
Perhaps  he  uttered  soulful  sighs: 
And  all  his  movements  were  so  coy, 
Flirtation  would  have  been  a  joy, 
If  he  had  half  a  chance,  I  think, 
Though  it  were  nothing  but  a  wink. 
He  taught  us  everything  but  Greek, 
Yet  that  was  what  we  came  to  seek, 
When  he  the  classroom  bashful  ruled; 
We  came,  but- we  were  badly  fooled. 
He  read  the  gospel  of  St.  Luke. 
In  Greek.     It  was  a  holy  fluke. 
He  fondled  books  of  Xenophon, 
And  gossiped  of  the  moon  and  sun, 
And  sometimes  he  would  yield  to  love 
The  virtue  which  is  owned  above. 
For  him  I  have  no  judgment  harsh, 
And  as  the  oak,  or  pine  or  larch, 
Erects  its  form  intent  to  halt 
The  storm,  so  Judge,  the  rough  assault 
Of  noisy  youth  attempts  to  stem. 


94  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

He  whispers  softly  unto  them 
Some  adage  of  the  living  God, 
Forgetting  youth  is  but  a  clod, 
And  spoils  the  child  to  spare  the  rod. 

Another,  Wakeham,  mounts  the  stage, 

And  just  as  usual  in  a  rage. 

The  class  of  English  was  his  fort, 

From  which  he  fired  lots  of  snort, 

At  everyone  around  about, 

Like  gourmand  suffering  from  the  gout. 

The  world  was  wrong,  and  man  was  wrong, 

The  ceaseless  burden  of  his  song. 

"It  was  a  lamentable  case," 
He  had  to  tell  us,  of  disgrace; 
But  of  our  English  we  were  balked, 
Though  sometimes  English  he  has  talked. 
While  he  was  tearing  up  the  air, 
And  raising  hades  everywhere. 
Ah.  here  he  comes,  and  steps  within; 
The  devil  sure  is  in  his  grin. 
But  first  he  opens  class  with  prayer, 
With  drooping  eyes  and  woful  air, 
As  if  to  pray  was  to  despair. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  our  lesson  was — 
And  then  the  words  begin  to  buzz. 
Each  struggles  like  the  very  deuce 
To  be  the  first  that  struggles  loose. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  our  lesson  was — 
Is  just  as  far  as  can  or  does 
Our  lesson  get.     From  that  place  on 
He  prates  of  wretched  students  gone, 
To  drunkards'  or  to  other  graves, 
And  of  the  awful  future  raves. 
He  had  his  tawdry  joke,  he  did, 
But  if  he  only  had  a  lid 
To  put  upon  the  box  wherein 


RETROSPECTIVE.  95 

He  kept  his  sermons  touching'  sin, 

I  sometimes  could  have  stayed  awake 

While  Father  Wakeham  scored  the  rake. 

We  built  a  dam  to  catch  the  flow 

Of  water  in  the  woods  below. 

He  was  the  boss  of  all  the  work, 

And  wouldn't  let  a  fellow  shirk; 

So,  after  all,  he  did  some  good; 

He  made  the  lake  within  the  wood, 

Where  in  the  winter  time  we  sped 

To  steely  runners  tightly  wed; 

Where  in  the  summertime  we  sailed 

Our  homemade  boats,  and  much  bewailed 

Our  poverty  which  did  not  let 

Us  get  a  launch,  or  better  yet, 

A  real  canoe  to  paddle  through, 

The  quiet  waters  fresh  and  blue 

He  was  a  man  whose  end  was  talk, 

Ungainly,  pessimistic  gawk. 

There  have  been  mankind  worse  than  he. 

May  heaven's  blessing  on  him  be! 

His  nature  was  too  grim  and  sour, 

And  hence  was  small  his  priestly  power. 

He  was  a  man  of  sapience 

That  bordered  on  omniscience, 

If  one  would  take  the  sound  for  sense. 

I  see  another;  oh,  how  tall — 

His  shadow  strolling  on  the  wall. 

A  doll  in  size,  a  man  in  brain; 

He  wrote  a  book  and  will  again, 

And  more  than  any  woman  vain. 

Along-  the  hall,  erect  and  proud, 

He  stamps  his 'feet  petite  but  loud, 

Till  one  would  think  a  giant  strode 

Along  the  cleav  resounding  road, 

And  thumped  and  thumped  with  might  and  main. 

He  is  a  scholar  and  a  thane. 


SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  thou,  dear  soul,  benignant,  odd, 
Whose  every  thought  had  root  in  God, 
Who  yelled  and  bellowed  at  a  youth 
For  what  he  never  did  forsooth, 
And  missed  the  snickering  culprit  sure 
As  heaven  loves  the  good  and  pure — 
Art  really  dead,  dear  Pere  Menu? 
And  can  it  be  thy  work  is  through? 
Above  thy  grave  let  flowers  bloom, 
And  fragrance  filter  from  thy  tomb, 
For  where  thou  art  there  is  no  gloom; 
Beloved,  generous  priest  of  God, 
Thy  peace  be  peaceful  'neath  the  sod! 
Attentive  shepherd,  we  thy  sheep 
In  memory  thy  worth  shall  keep; 
We  know  thou  dost  not  need  our  prayer. 
But  needy  waiting  souls  may  share: 
And  thou  for  us  canst  speak  a  speech 
The  very  ear  of  God  to  reach, 
And  since  thy  word  is  greater  now, 
Oh  pray  for  me,  archangel  thou. 
Remember  that  my  flesh  is  weak, 
Yea,  still  as  flabby,  soft,  and  eke 
As  plastic  as  it  was,  when  here 
Below  I  loved  thee  in  that  year, 
When  first  I  saw  a  painful  tear 
Roll  up  and  trace  the  furrows  down 
That  scribbled  on  thy  visage  brown. 
And  has  thy  plain  chant  ceased  to  ronk, 
And  startle  all  the  church,  dear  monk, 
And  every  muse  antagonize 
That  mingled  with  the  organ's  cries? 
Ah,  those  who  came  too  late  to  know 
Thy  nature  true  can  only  go 
And  beg  the  story  from  the  men 
Who  knew  thy  moving  spirit  then. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  97 

Guilbaud,  hobblegaited,  limp, 

Slow  of  speech  and  pace,  without  a  crimp 

Of  frippery;  in  fashion  plain. 

And  face;  he  gabbled  Greek  amain. 

Deaf  of  an  ear  he  never  knew 

The  heartless  gests  that  frequent  flew 

Athwart  the  class-room  where  he  drooled 

His  melancholic  lectures.     Ruled 

By  inborn  gentleness,  alas, 

He  thought  we  all  would  nimbly  pass 

For  saints  beyond  the  steady  bar 

Where  seraphs  like  him  glorious  are. 

His  life  was  small;  his  aims  and  scope 

Were  large  by  bigness  of  his  hope. 

In  him  I  first  began  to  know 

That  lack  of  wit  is  want  of  woe; 

That  being  able  naught  to  do, 

Except  to  wade  our  muck-life  through, 

Does  not  withdraw  from  Heaven's  path 

The  creature,  nor  the  aftermath 

Of  struggling  here  make  worth  the  less 

Before  the  Judgment  Seat.     Excess 

Of  power  may  ill  result, 

For  men  are  given  to  exult. 

Indeed  I'd  glad  swap  Vuibert's  brains, 

For  Guilbaud 's  chance  to  hear  the  strains 

Of  ''Holy!  Holy!"  over  there 

Where  hope  is  dead,  likewise  dispair. 

Dear  Father  Chapuis,  is  it  thou, 

Lopsided  still  and  pursed  of  brow, 

That  scuttles  down  the  corridor 

From  chapel  to  the  pantry  door, 

To  ope  the  first  for  us  to  pray, 

To  close  the  latter  lest  away 

Some  hungry  youth  would  slavering  bear 

A  hunk  of  bread  his  bowels  to  spare 


SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Necessity  to  rumble,  growl, 

And  rid  the  face  of  gloom  and  scowl? 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  dreadful  day 

We  hitched  the  rancid  butter  gray, 

Alert  and  brisk,  to  coffee-pot, 

And  thought  we  saw  the  latter,  hot, 

Start  at  a  canter  down  the  board 

That  served  for  table,  where  we  stored 

Our  cups  and  saucers,  knives  and  forks 

And  crusts  of  bread    like  stealthy  storks. 

Some  years  have  passed  since  then,  but  yet 

I  long  to  know — you'll  tell,  I  bet — 

Why  we  were  all  required  to  wash 

Our  dirtied  queensware  in  the  slosh 

And  slops  exuded  by  the  meal; 

Why  never  decent  water  reached 

The  tools  of  feeding,  though  you  preached — 

You  priests  Sulpician — to  be  clean 

Was  next  to  Godliness  unseen. 

Since  Zola  wrote  the  book.  La  Terre, 

I  have  opined  the  author  there 

Has  well  portrayed  the  unclean  class, 

The  sort  that  love  a  stifling  gas 

Such  as  were  those,  I  have  no  doubt, 

That  ruled  that  students  live  without 

Washed  dishes,  knives,  and  pewter  toys, 

Where  Sulpice  guards  his  prayerful  boys. 

Why  did  you  feed  us  all  on  shins, 

Of  cow,  and  vermin  pestered  skins, 

The  while  to  Paca  street  you  shipped 

The  choicest  cuts  man  ever  slipped 

His  gullet  down?    Dost  think  'twas  fair 

To  starve  the  younger,  having  care 

To  pad  the  stomachs  tougher  grown, 

Of  those  that  wore  the  cap  and  gown? 

Why  did  you  sit  on  high  where  all 

Could  see  you  gormandise,  and  trawl 


RETROSPECTIVE.  99 

For  more  of  what  the  earth  gave  best, 

Though  we  were  very  lavish  blest 

To  get  the  worst  below,  the  waste 

Of  farm  and  range,  to  flatter  life 

To  stay  awhile  for  further  strife. 

If  you  had  sneaked  away  and  gorged, 

'Twould  not  have  been  so  bad.     You  forged 

Red  flesh  for  selves,  a  pallid  cheek 

For  us,  and  limbs  that  tottered,  weak: 

For  selves  a  gross  and  beefy  neck, 

For  us,  a  goose-like  one  to  break. 

And  why  not  seek  a  banquet-room, 

Where  outside  was -a  clammy  gloom? 

Inside  might  glow  a  thousand  lamps, 

And  burnished  gold,  ignoring  damps 

Without,  and  silvern  vessels  show 

Their  whiteness  where  the  blush  wines  flow. 

The  chastisement  of  self  you  taught, 

You  might  have  practised  too,  for  aught 

We  would  have  known;  but  now  we  must 

Confess  your  sermons  dulled  with  rust. 

We  with  a  shinbone  down  below; 

You  with  a  reed  bird  soft  as  snow, 

Seated  on  high;  you  with  red  wine; 

We  with  a  coffee  harsh  as  brine; 

We  with  jalop-spiced  apple  sauce; 

You  with  blanc-manges  and  fruit  moss; 

The  list  is  long;  lets  pass  it  by. 

Those  that  hungered  down  below,  on  high 

May  feast  when  life  is  ushered  out; 

And  those  that  gluttonized  about 

This  fretful  ball  of  day  and  night 

May  yell  for  mouthfuls,  main  and  might, 

Where  Lazarus  can  scorn  their  cry, 

With  us  impartial  standing  by. 

Perhaps  the  dias  lofty  raised, 

Where  epicurean  nobles  praised 


100  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Their  God,  their  bellies  stuffed,  and  starved 
Us  wretched,  while  their  roasts  they  carved, 
May  loom  in  view  on  Judgment  Day, 
Derisive  of  the  well-fed  clay 
That  once  upon  it  crammed  and  laughed, 
And  Bourbon  old  and  Rhenish  quaffed. 

And  Frank  McKenna,  gentle  Frank, 

Art  still  intollerant  of  a  prank, 

That  you  liked  well  before  you  came 

From  Paris,  France,  demure  and  tame? 

And  have  you  got  the  same  old  room, 

That  knows  the  dormitorial  gloom? 

I  oft  recall  your  tip-toe  through, 

When  boyish  clatter  wakened  you, 

To  see  what  culprit  you  could  catch, 

In  crime,  and  him  bald-headed  snatch. 

'Tis  strange  tome  Old  Glory's  son, 

So  given  to  his  harmless  fun, 

When  once  he  lives  with  Saint  Sulpice. 

Condemns  his  antics  to  decease. 

There's  Wakeham,  Judge,  yourself  in  chief, 

All  quiet  as  a  falling  leaf, 

And  I  would  bet  a  dollar  now 

Before  the  cowl  fell  on  their  brow, 

That  Wakeham,  Judge,  their  mischief  worked  , 

As  well  as  any  youth  that  clerked. 

And  though  at  times  I  may  condemn 

Unpriestly  petty  fault  in  them 

Who  serve  the  altar,  say  the  mass, 

Absolve  the  sinner,  help  to  pass 

The  dying  through  the  slender  veil 

'Tween  temporal  and  eternal  pale, 

But  yet  forget  they  owe  their  flock 

A  duty  that  suggests  their  frock — 

To  give  no  scandal,  small  or  great, 

By  goblet  full  or  loaded  plate, 


RETROSPECTIVE.  101 

By  act  unkind  or  speech  unclean, 

Or  venom  of  a  bilious  spleen — 

Although  I  do  condemn  the  slips, 

Injustice  is  not  on  my  lips. 

I  yield  the  godly  man  his  prize, 

The  praise  of  those  that  recognize, 

With  readiness,  the  earthly  saint, 

While  preaching  him  who  knows  the  law, 

But  practices  along  the  flaw, 

A  sermon  on  the  good  undone 

Before  the  better  is  begun. 


102  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


RAVINGS. 

I  asked  her  a  kies  ere  she  went; 
Alas,  is  it  sin,  only  this, 

For  the  love  that  I  sent, 

And  the  heartache  within! 

And  her  eye  flashed  bright  as  she  said: 
"Vain  wanton,  away!"     Was  I  right? 
Her  bosom  was  cold-inlaid 
Like  a  frozen  flower  that  day. 

Not  a  lover  I  spoke,  but  a  friend, 
And  she  spurned  me  forsooth;  and  the  yoke 
That  I  bear  to  the  end 
Cankers  my  soul  without  ruth. 

Red  wine,  pray  attend,  for  I'm  sad; 
Come  mantle  the  blight  and  forfend ! 

In  my  cup  I  am  glad, 

And  I  lift  it  up  tonight. 

I  lift  and  atone;  I  would  laugh — 

I  rather  would  weep — I'm  alone. 
I  uplift  it  and  quaff, 
Yea,  to  the  dregs  ere  I  leap. 

I  stand  on  the  prow;  I'm  alone. 
How  dismal  the  sky  it  is  now, 

And  how  cold  like  a  stone 

Is  my  heart  when  I  sigh! 


RAVINGS.  103 


Shall  I  plunge  and  die?    The  stars  fret 
Too,  with  me  tonight,  and  the  sky 

Is  clad  in  fretted  jet, 

The  wan  moon  hides  from  sight. 

And  I  live  in  spite!    It  is  queer! 

Do  I  live  for  love?    Read  aright, 
I  pray,  and  hearkening  hear 
No  promise  from  above. 

Were  I  mad  that  time,  she'd  forgive; 

I  am  wildly  mad,  and  a  chime, 

From  her  lips,  like  a  sieve, 
Oozes  harsh:  "I  am  glad." 

I  will  live  to  grieve  forever; 

If  I  did  a  wrong,  let  me  weave 
A  woof  of  woe  and  never 
Know  aught  of  tender  song. 

She  sent  me  away  in  sorrow, 
And  hates  me  for  why?    Why  today 
Does  she  go,  and  tomorrow 
Shall  I  see  her?  no,  not  I. 

The  tears  that  I  shed,  let  them  plead, 
Jewelled  prayers  to  thee!     Were  I  dead 
Would  she  care?    Ah,  indeed, 
I  believe  not — why  for  me? 

The  dead  do  not  praise  woman's  grace. 

I  offer  the  store  of  my  days, 
Only  to  turn  thy  face 
And  say:  "I  hate  no  more.  " 


104  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Am  I  weak  to  wail  as  I  do? 

Are  manly  tears  or  flat  or  stale? 

The  Christ-man,  He  wept  too, 
And  so  His  brothers  can. 

I'm  alone  up  here — all  alone, 
Where  the  rumble  reels  on  my  ear, 

With  groans,  and  hurt  hopes  moan 
Like  a  sensate  thing  that  feels. 

But  I  heed  no  sound  as  I  sit 
At  my  window  blear,  and  around 
Gaze  blank  as  a  statuette 
At  pallid  walls  and  drear. 

And  the  night  is  still;  it  is  two. 

How  the  clock  tells  time!  and  the  ill, 
Like  a  clamorous  shrew, 
Resents  both  hour  and  clime. 

Within,  ah,  within,  there  is  moan; 
There's  tempest  and  surge;  there  is  sin: 

And  myself  with  a  groan 

To  a  prayer  do  I  urge. 

And  I  cry:  "  Forgive!"     from  the  dark, 
And  I  rise  and  grope,  for  I  live 

In  the  flesh,  though  I'm  stark 
And  cold  as  distracted  hope. 

I  would  die  for  thee  that  thou  live, 
Though  I  wandering  go,  or  I  flee, 
Like  the  beggars  that  give, 
A  blessing  for  boon  or  blow. 


RAVINGS.  105 

Though  I  trudge  on,  on,  through  my  life, 
Over  moor  or  swamp,  where  light  shone 

Never,  or  fell  in  strife 

On  the  Upas  deathful,  damp; 

Though  I  climb  the  height  where  the  snow 
Lies  old,  and  the  ice  glares  bright 

And  as  cold  in  its  glow 

As  the  sheen  of  thine  eyes, 

Still  in  pursuit,  still  will  you  be, 
For  I  can't  fly  far  from  the  ill 

You  gave,  while  yet  on  me 

Lowers  your  lurid  star, 

Till  my  lamp  go  out  in  the  room, 
And  I  hear  no  call  roundabout, 

And  my  path  to  the  tomb 

No  hand  smoothes  down  at  all ! 

Ah,  better  I  go  as  I  came, 
Alone  like  that  star  sinking  low 

In  the  west,  without  shame, 

Bearing  a  love-red  scar, 

On  my  heart  that  beats  as  before 
It  beat  but  for  thee,  whom  it  greets 

At  the  open,  outward  door, 

Embracing  its  misery. 

Thou  hast  gone  away!     Be  it  so, 
I  wish,  wishing  not  what  I  say, 

For  I'm  sad  as  the  low 

Adieu  that  gasps  from  my  cot. 


106  SONGS   FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


MAY,  1884. 

The  year  is  passing,  changing,  by; 

Its  wings  outspread 
Lift  o'er  the  tide  of  transient  sigh 

The  heart's  emotions  merrily. 

Forgot  the  dead, 
What  pleasure  brought  and  what  brought  pain . 

The  future  now 

Advances,  and  in  her  purring  train 
Are  themes  all  sweet  with  untaught,  unheard  strain. 

Harbinger  thou, 
O  Cantatrice,  that  warblest  near, 

On  yonder  tree, 

That  swings  thee  'neath  my  window  clear, 
As  thy  soft  note  I  lean  to  hear 

Contentedly. 

But  wouldst  thou  make  my  heart  beat  high, 

Wood-urchin,  friend, 
Warble  "Success"  into  my  ear, 

And  so  that  I  may  learn  to  fly 

Spread  wing,  ascend, 
And  I  will  watch  thee  upward  go 

Into  the  blue, 

Where  cirrhus  flocks  tumultuous  flow, 
Like  angel  sheep  observed  from  earth  below. 

And  thus  to  you, 
If  I  should  rise  above  the  crowd, 

I'll  owe  the  hint, 

To  seek  the  heights  of  pure-white  cloud, 
And  gain  them  when  the  head  is  bowed, 

And  white  as  lint. 


LIN  A.  107 


LINA 

Though  you  were  fain  to  cherish  me. 

Thou  lovely  maid  and  fay, 
Yet  you'd  refrain  because  a  pain 

On  other  heart  'twould  lay. 

O  let  thy  soul  less  tender  be, 
Thou  girl  of  bloomy  May; 

For  grief  will  start  if  you  the  dart 
Unthinking  snatch  away. 

It  quivers  now  imbedded  deep, 
Thou  seedplot  of  the  smile; 

There  let  it  be,  for  thee  and  me 
A  bond  for  all  the  while. 


108  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  WAGON  RIDE  FROM  COLLEGE  TO  THE  CARS. 

As  home  we  speed,  the  bob-tail  steed 

Our  gladness  seems  to  know, 
For  swift  his  gait,  his  head  elate, 
His  eye  aflame  and  stiff  his  mane. 

Yes,  we  are  going  home — 
How  quick  it  makes  the  sensate  rivers  flow — 
To  father's  grunt  and  gentle  mother's  glow. 

The  aspens  glance,  the  saplings  dance 

To  see  that  we  are  glad: 
The  rocks  around  toss  back  our  sound, 

The  hollows  shout,  the  hillocks  flout, 

As  we  are  going  home, 

To  make  the  bosoms  gay  that  erst  were  sad, 
To  greet  the  sister  grown,  the  brother  lad. 

The  darkey's  wife,  with  rapture  rife, 

Runs  to  the  rickety  door: 
Her  husband  bows,  his  dog  bow-wows, 
And  young  moaks  grin,  and  nudge  and  peep, 

Because  we  hurry  home 

To  scenes  that  heard  our  prattled  childish  lore, 
Friends  left  to  meet  and  miss  who  are  no  more. 

The  birds  on  high  are  sailing  by 

As  we  are  going  home; 
The  lazy  cow  looks  wistful  now, 
Forgetting  soon  our  coming  boon, 

That  we  are  going  home 
To  hearts  that  beat  a  parent's  tender  strain, 
To  gaze  into  an  eye  that  tells  its  wane. 


THE  WAGON  RIDE  FROM  COLLEGE  TO  THE  CARS.          109 

How  should  the  soul  from  its  full  bowl, 

The  home-folks  smiling  down, 
Pour  out  its  wealth  and  body  health, 
To  cheer  if  woe  should  deal  a  blow, 

And  smother  every  frown, 

That  might  new  seams  sew  in  the  furrowed  face, 
The  evening  mists  with  dawnlike  radiance  chase. 


110  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


UNCERTAINTY. 

I  ask  myself  today  if  I  have  loved, 

And  doubt  no  more  the  timorous  answer  "No!" 
I  ask  myself  if  now  I  love  at  length, 

While  hurried  heart-beats  scurry  too  and  fro, 
And  what  this  waxing  and  this  waning  strength. 

And  yet  I  doubt  th'  unblenching  answer  "Yes!" 
And  try  to  sound  its  depth  by  test  and  guess; 

Then  pass  it  by  awhile.     I  do  not  know. 

In  sooth,  at  times  I  hardly  believe  that  one 

Can  tell  when  true-love  fevers  vex  the  brain: 
For  who  can  set  the  thin  dividing  screen 

'Twixt  snide  and  sterling  amorous  pain, 
Or  bliss,  whate'er  it  be  or  may  have  been? 

Then  what  this  thoughtless,  staring,  far-away, 
Unspeculative  eye,  the  restless  stay 

And  start  of  self  that  tugs  as  at  a  chain? 

Why  then  in  turn  the  joy  and  gloom,  the  light 

And  happy  jaunty  poise,  the  mucky  chill, 
The  wafture  smooth,  the  quake,  the  shock,  the  dip, 

The  rise,  the  fall  anon,  smooth  wafture's  thrill 
Again,  the  ceaseless  change,  the  nectar  sip 

With  wormwood  following  quickly,  and  the  laugh 
That  makes  a  moaning  ere  its  tinkle  half 

Be  heard,  ere  it  flutter  from  the  lip? 

I  almost  feel  that  now  T  love  at  length. 

Then  why  this  caution  to  confess?     Say  why ! 
I  do  not  know,  or  is  it  shame  if  fear? 


UNCERTAINTY.  Ill 

'Tis  strange  anomaly.     Mayhap  the  eye 
Hath  signalled  not!    Mayhap  the  cheek  no  clear, 

Rubescent  flag  hath  waved,  without,  that  speaks, 
Though  mute,  more  skillful  than  the  tongue,  ekes 

Ecstatic  fancy  to  the  rhythmic  sigh. 

And  must  I  go  apart  and  ogle  like  a  loon, 

Or  moonstruck  witling  whistling  from  a  nook, 
And  list  the  rustling  garment  as  she  glides 

Heedlessly  by  me,  or  leer  like  a  rook, 
Or  like  a  silly  boat  upon  the  tides, 

Askant,  and  never  know  and  fear  to  ask, 
Lest  that  the  brilliant  light  in  which  I  bask 

Go  down,  and  rise  no  more  besides. 

Will  it  not  please  my  soul  to  limn  it  now — 

A  memory  to  shine  on  other  days — 
To  sketch  upon  the  plastic  mind  that  face, 

Which  now  gives  painful  joy-doubt,  and  doth  raise 
Fair  hope  to  let  it  fall.     Oh  tender  grace 

And  semi-sense  of  happiness  forthfetch 
Some  talismanic,  soft-eyed  fay  to  etch 

Tomorrow's  gloom  and  litchened  bough! 

Can  loss  deep-understood,  bring  sorer  woe 

Than  tense  suspension  'tween  both  fear  and  hope, 
Slow  swinging,  like  the  tall  clock's  busy  pulse 

That  flings  the  elfish  moments  to  the  slope — 
Whitherward  evanishing?     Search  love-cults 

For  answer;  hazard  future  on  a  cast; 
The  dice  will  end  the  doubt  and  trust  at  last, 

And  bid  thee  dream  no  more,  nor  mope. 


112  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


TWO  FLOWERS. 

A  Lily  and  a  Rose 

Dwelled  in  a  grassy  mead, 
Where  humming  water  goes 

Among  the  marshalled  weed. 

In  darker  vesture  this, 
And  that  in  virgin  robe, 

And  each  attended  is 
By  menials  of  the  grove. 

When  in  the  swelling  bud, 
They  shared  a  tender  love. 

The  Rose's  tinge  of  blood, 
Reflected  from  above, 

Gave  color  to  the  cheek, 
And  lit  the  pallid  brow, 

That  won  the  Lily  meek 
The  pathos  and  the  vow. 

Nor  did  the  beauty  wan, 

When  chumming  with  the  dark, 
No  rapture  throw  upon 

Her  comrade  in  the  park. 

And  both  were  kissed,  caressed, 
And  both  were  fondled  oft, 

And  each  thought  each  the  best 
That  lived  beside  the  croft. 


TWO  FLOWERS.  113 

The  older  still  they  grew, 

The  warmer  burned  the  heart, 
And  neither  gladness  knew 

Unless  it  could  impart. 

Up  higher  rose  the  head, 

Where  hung  a  fondling  brake; 
Their  fuller  mantle  spread 

A  full-blown  flower  spake. 

No  ill  had  put  between 

To  solve  the  friendly  bond, 
And  love  as  it  had  been, 

Still  was  intent  and  fond. 


They  whispered  in  the  beam 
Which  morning  flung  about, 

And  told  the  peopled  dream 
Which  slumber  sculptured  out. 

The  midday's  wooing  glance 

Fell  on  the  twain  alike; 
No  blush  could  ever  chance 

The  one  not  both  to  strike. 

And  Love  like  Eden's  own 
Was  queen  of  all  the  day, 

And  Sleep  came  gently  down 
Her  scepter  to  display. 

Amid  these  blissful  scenes, 
They  passed  the  youthful  hour, 

From  seedlings  through  their  teens, 
By  sunlight  nursed  and  shower. 


114  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  Love  like  Eden's  own 
Was  queen  of  all  the  day, 

And  Sleep  came  gently  down 
To  exercise  her  sway. 

There  fell  a  wondrous  spell; 

But  still  they  stood  beside, 
Nor  do  the  blushes  tell 

The  pulse's  altered  tide. 

A  smile  is  born  as  then 
When  meet  their  distant  eye, 

As  loathing  to  profane 
The  pregnant  memory. 

Soft  eye  looked  into  eye 
As  it  was  wont  to  be, 

And  sigh  re-echoed  sigh 
For  sake  of  harmony. 

A  newer  chord  was  strung 
Into  each  throbbing  heart, 

A  newer  music  rung 
But  not  the  former  art; 

Another  finger  roves 

Among  the  tuneful  strings, 

As  when  the  summer  groves 
Catch  autumn's  whisperings. 

But  nearer  came  the  gloom, 
And  harsher  grew  the  song, 

While  fairer  looked  the  bloom, 
And  rapter  gazed  the  throng. 


TWO  FLOWERS.  115 

A  feigning  taper  burned 
-  Upon  the  rounded  cheek, 
For  thence  the  true  is  spurned, 
And  gone  the  good  and  meek. 

They  meet  within  the  day; 

They  mingle  in  the  night; 
They  smile  the  scowl  away, 

And  clothe  the  hate  in  light. 

They  wish  to  hide  the  truth 

From  lowly  flower  and  leaf, 
From  dandelion  and,  sooth, 

The  daisy  flower  in  chief. 

The  bluet,  golden-rod, 

The  painter's-brush  and  hop, 
The  honeysuckle  on  the  sod, 

The  primrose  in  the  crop, 

Polygala,  holly, 

The  morning-glory  fresh, 
Larkspur  blue  and  jolly. 

Carnation  with  its  mesh, 

And  every  plant  that  sways 

In  garden,  field  or  waste, 
Within  the  warming  rays 

That  drop  from  heaven  chaste, 

No  longer  hesitate, 

The  which  to  choose  for  queen, 
Incline  their  heads  to  fate 

And  wither  on  the  green. 


116  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  now  the  passers-by, 
As  if  they  knew  the  death, 

Do  o'er  the  Lily  sigh 
And  steal  the  Rose's  breath. 

Where  they  were  true  to  both, 
To  either  now  untrue, 

And  in  their  soul  the  sloth 
That  shivers  faith  in  two. 

No  more  is  each  indeed 
Companion  in  the  praise. 

But  either  has  her  meed. 
And  envy  owns  the  days. 

Who  lay  the  Lily  close 
Upon  the  tresses  brown, 

Ignore  the  regal  Rose, 
Or  stun  her  with  a  frown. 

Who  wear  the  Rose  a  crown 
Upon  the  flaxen  hair, 

They  cast  the  Lily  down 
Upon  the  tufted  stair. 

And  thus,  though  neither  shows 
The  gnawing  hate  by  word, 

The  voice  of  loving's  woes 
Is  in  the  seeming  heard. 

What  means  the  studied  speech, 
The  praise  satiric  sped, 

The  mien,  the  look?  Ah,  each 
Proclaims  the  dying  dead! 


TWO  FLOWERS.  117 

But  once  a  killing  blight 

Fell  on  the  Lily's  cheek, 
And  drooped  her  head,  as  light 

Before  the  smoke  and  reek. 

And  in  the  sullen  gloom, 

The  Rose  turned  long  away, 
Still  in  commanding  bloom, 

Recalled  the  other  day. 

The  elf  that  rules  within, 

Busy  at  good,  if  let, 
Denounced  the  folly,  sin, 

And  good  example  set; 

And  ere  the  death  invade, 

And  Lily  take  away, 
Advised  her,  unafraid, 

To  seek  her  where  she  lay. 

And  fear  was  strong,  and  pride 

Resigned  the  worshiped  plume, 
And  saw  with  sin  allied 

A  dire  monster  loom. 

She  visited  the  sick, 

But  sense  had  stricken  fled, 
And  beat  the  slow  heart  quick, 

And  hate  in  grief  was  dead. 

The  Lily  waked  at  last, 

As  if  a  magic  boon, 
Had  journeyed  from  the  past, 

And  called  her  back  at  noon. 


118  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK   MESA. 

And  both  were  wed  in  thought, 
And  shame  the  surpliced  priest, 

Both  sad  where  gladness  ought 
To  bless  the  marriage  feast. 

Now  joyful  was  the  sun, 
The  blight  had  vanished  all, 

And  Hope,  the  festal  one, 
Removed  the  ready  pall. 

So  when  the  regent  smile 
Resumed  its  olden  sway, 

And  when  the  tender  wile 
Began  again  to  play, 

The  stately  flower  that  gave 
The  proud  one's  coronet, 

Forgot  was  as  the  grave 
Had  won  the  pale  coquette. 

The  Lily  had  no  soul, 
And  grandeur  of  the  Rose 

Received  no  graceful  toll 
That  gratitude  bestows. 

Tne  Lily  soon  condemned 
Her  noble  comrade  true, 

Her  heartedness  contemned 
As  bearing  envy's  hue. 

"The  Rose  came  here,"  she  said, 

"Because  the  gallants  do: 
She  thinks  her  tossy  head, 
Can  win  my  homage  too." 


TWO  FLOWERS.  119 

Perhaps  their  path  divides 

That  each  may  cheer  some  spot, 
Where  ugliness  resides 

Or  beauty  is  forgot. 

Forsooth,  where  ere  they  are, 

Where  summer  warms  the  clifts, 
Or  where  the  moonbeams  bar 

The  forest  floor  uplifts, 

Or  where  the  winter  chill 

Its  fleecy  mantle  spreads, 
Or  where  the  showers  spill 

Their  breath  on  flower  beds, 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose 

Disdainful  glances  send, 
For  beauty  never  knows 

Par  beauty  for  her  friend. 

And  rivals  will  not  brook 

Invasion  of  their  sway, 
The  redbreast  is  a  rook, 

The  blue-bird  is  a  jay. 

No  glory  can  they  see 

In  her  who  glorifies, 
Nor  can  another  be 

A  censer  swung  with  sighs. 

One  only  halo  burns, 

And  it  is  round  her  brow; 
One  only  homage  yearns 

With  sentimental  vow. 


120  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MAY  KAVANAUGH. 

Let  the  lights  go  out  in  the  evening, 
And  the  star-eyes  blink  no  more, 
Let  the  moon  glide  off  forever, 
And  flock-clouds  huddle  o'er. 

For  she  went  away  in  the  evening, 
And  took  all  her  laughter  away; 

She  has  taken  no  thought  of  our  grieving, 
Or  why  does  she  stay? 

I  am  sad  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening. 

All  hope  in  dull  crepe  is  begirt. 
O  Life,  let  me  go  whither  she  went! 

Death  it  can  add  no  hurt. 

Must  I  plod  thus  from  dawn  till  the  evening, 

From  evening  till  dawn  come  again? 
'  Twere  cruel  to  sneer  at  my  sorrow, 
When  life  is  dreamless  pain. 


CAESAR  JACKSON'S    WEDDING.  121 


CAESAR  JACKSON'S  WEDDING. 

Duh  bells  is  ringin  in  duh  ol  bell  loft', 

Duh  prechuh's  waitin  in  duh  chuch, 
And  fokes  is  rivin  laffin  loud  and  soff, 

Wif  teef  all  shinin  day  grins  so  much. 

Duh  pahson's  specs  am  sot  upon  his  fohd, 

He  looks  so  awful  wise  and  knowin; 
And  at  duh  bride  d'admirashun's  frode; 

Duh  groom  he  magins  he's  so  showin. 

Wha's  duh  bride  and  wha's  duh  bridegroom  too? 

Yuh  see  dat  feller  wid  duh  yallah  glubs. 
'N  stovepipe  hat,  so  spruce  'n  how  d'ye  do, 

Dat's  him,  'n  shoes  lak  Injun  clubs! 

Dat  niggah  tinks  hese  debbil  sho  enuff 
Bekase  dat  gal  she's  agwine  tuh  hab  im! 

Los  tuh  duh  wuhyl!     It's  sartin  mighty  ruff 
Tuh  dun  get  lef.     May  duh  debbil  grab  im! 

"Mister  Jackson,  heah  dese  wuyds!     Dus  yuh  accep 
Dis  gala  wench  for  wuss  and  bettah  too?" 

"I  dus."     "An  Liza  Jane,  dus  yuh  dis  step 

Onconshers  take  or  dus  yuh  know?"     "I  do." 

Duh  marhyge  is  froo  'n  all  am  agwine 
Tuh  duh  feas  whah  day's  possums  'n  coons; 

Ah  seen  em  ahangin  out  on  duh  line, 

Dat  Ah  borrered  one  night  frun  Doctuh  Gaboon's. 


122  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

'N  Ah  gin  it  tub  dat  gal  whahchuh  sees 
Uh  smilin  on  uhnudder  cullud  gemman; 

But  its  allus  duh  same  wif  gals  lak  dese, 
Yuh  grease  em,  den  day  sours  lak  a  lemon 

When  yuhs  dun  all  yuh  can  tun  enroll  er: 
But  duh  white  fokes  says  duh  same.     Guess  its  true 

Ob  dem  all,  no  mattuh  bout  duh  cullah, 
For  duh  skin  isn  boss  o'  whaht  yuh  do. 

But  dats  all  right;  let  er  hab  duh  ol  moak: 
She  wants  im  kase  he's  yallah  'n  Ise  black: 

But  Ah  tel  yuh  whaht  Ah  betchuh,  he  ill  soak 
All  duh  satin  dat  duh  wench  has  on  er  back. 

'N  dat  aint  all  I  betchuh;  put  it  down; 

Ah  betchuh  dat  he  soaks  er  in  er  grin, 
Duh  fustes  thing  he  does  outa  town, 
'N  I  grees  wif  Mister  God  taint  no  sin. 


AN   ALEXANDRIAN   LOVE   AFFAIR.  123 


AN  ALEXANDRIAN  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

I'se  made  fuh  lub;  I  bliebes  it.  Lize; 

I  knows  I'se  boan  fuh  lub: 
Des  see  duh  lub  light  in  dese  eyes, 

'N  say  taint  so  I'se  talkin  ub. 

An  put  yuh  han  right  hyah,  no,  hyah, 
Feel  how  dat  haht  he  kick, 

An  blink  as  libely  as  a  stah 
What  done  fell  in  a  crick. 

Es  if  it  done  got  drownded  dah 
Wif  teahs  what  lub  has  wep; 

An  den  yuh  doubts  me,  does  yuh?  lah! 
Den  how's  yuh  promise  kep? 

My  haht's  a  fly,  all  tangle  up, 
Wif  codes  what  lub  has  fro; 

An  same's  duh  fly  it  buzz  and  ju'p, 
But  duh  spider's  got  him,  sho. 

An  woan  yuh  look  on  me  and  smile, 

A  lill  bit  lack  yuh  could, 
Duh  udder  night  fo  moa'n  a  mile, 

Comin  froo  Noble's  wood. 

Yuh  knows  it,  Lize,  dat  I'se  duh  bes 

Ub  all  duh  boys  aroun; 
Den  say  duh  wuhd;  I  does  duh  res, 

Duh  tellin  and  duh  bown. 


124  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Yuh  sea  duh  wuhd!    Come  tub  dis  bres, 
An  mahyh  yo  lips  to  mine; 

We'll  lib  on  possum;  oh,  duh  res, 
Duh  kissin  and  duh  sighin! 


COYOTE'S   ARGUMENT.  125 


COYOTE'S  ARGUMENT. 

The  nasty,  gaunt,  the  cowardly  coyote 

I  am  called, 

For  every  prince  or  scullion  a  pelota, 
For,  bad  of  birth  and  bastard  of  the  fox, 

Unappalled, 

I  skulk  among  the  piiions  and  the  rocks, 
I  rob  a  henroost  or  I  eat  the  slain 
That  rot  upon  the  heaven-bounded  plain, 

And  I  am  false  as  any  paradox. 

Oh,  yes,  I  am  a  coward !    What  of  that? 

Whose  to  blame '? 

I'm  nasty,  gaunt,  and  flee  the  common  cat; 
The  people  of  the  Westland  do  indeed — 

What  a  shame! — 

Compel  my  name  to  epigram  "mixed-breed;" 
So,  when  sleep  invites  the  miner  in  his  camp, 
When  weariness  o'ertakes  the  saint  or  scamp, 

I  howl  for  hate  till  vengeance  runs  to  seed. 

I  know  that  I  am  scorned,  but  wrong  or  right, 

What's  to  do? 

And  who  would  heed  a  plains-dog's  plea  tonight, 
Though  I  proved  injustice  rank  to  me  were  done, — 

He  or  you? 

Because  my  breed  to  theft  and  filth  has  run — 
A  thief  because  my  life  must  live  for  man's, 
A  scavenger,  whom  man  despising  scans — 

That  he  survive  till  many  a  coming  sun. 


126  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

When  honesty  of  effort  don't  avail 

To  feed  me, 

Then  I  sneak  and  steal,  for  if  I  should  fail, 
Humankind  would  cease  in  manner  gross  and  vile— 

Let  me  be, 

Let  me  argue  best  I  can  for  a  while — 
There  is  no  love  for  living  in  my  heart, 
But  I've  a  duty  to  perform  on  my  part, 

Appointed  me  by  Him  that  knows  not  guile. 

I  am  the  only  master  scavenger 

Of  the  plains; 

Crows  and  vultures  my  assistants,  I  aver; 
Before  the  shrewd  bacillus  builds  its  nest. 

I  take  pains 

Upon  its  stuff  to  dine,  excited  lest 
Contagion  walk  the  viewless  aisles  of  air, 
Infection  strike  at  mankind  from  its  lair, 

And  microbes  do  slow  murder  without  rest. 

I  have  no  praise  or  glory  for  reward — 

Only  taunt — 
Though  I've  made  the  prairie  wholesome,  man.  my 

lord, 
At  sacrifice  of  honor,  worth  and  fame; 

Looks  askant 
For  him  who  serves  the  world,   through  hate   and 

blame, 

With  loyalty.     My  father,  Fox,  is  proud, 
Holds  up  his  head,  for  robbing  is  allowed 

To  him  whose  line  ie   long,  and  brings  no 
shame. 

I  ask  a  verdict  for  my  race  maligned, 

Upon  proof; 
There's  malice  in  the  slanderer's  opened  mind: 


COYOTE'S  ARGUMENT.  127 

He  has  not  told  the  public  to  befriend, 

For  behoof, 

Nor  has  he  known  the  class  his  tales  offend, 
Nor  all  the  labor  of  their  workaday, 
Nor  all  the  sorrow  of  their  cheerless  way, 

Nor  that  thev  are  a  means  unto  an  end. 


128  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


TO  THE  PRAIRIE  DOG. 

Roly-poly  animal, 

Clad  in  garb  of  clay, 

I  will,  if  I  may, 

At  your  burrowed  mansion  call, 
And  be  at  home,  I  pray. 

Frisking,  flirting,  rounded  thing, 
Whence  does  come  your  fear? 
There's  no  foeman  here: 

I  a  friendly  greeting  bring, 

And  promises  of  cheer. 

On  your  yellow  prairie  far, 
With  your  hopping  breed, 
What  a  life  you  lead! 
All  about  no  waters  are, 
And  dried-up  roots  for  feed. 

Ochred  pup,  why  do  you  run? 

Can't  I  be  your  friend? 

Standing  there  on  end, 
Do  you  peep  around  in  fun, 
Or  watchful  to  defend? 

If  you  snappy  have  to  bark, 
Bark  a  welcome  warm: 
I'll  not  do  you  harm: 

Come  and  play  within  the  park, 

And  lav  aside  alarm. 


TO   THE  PRAIRIE  DOG. 

Madam,  I  have  met  your  race 

Many  times  before, 

And  I  find,  the  war 
I  should  dread  the  most  to  face 
Is  woman's  love  for  gore. 

Why,  I've  wondered  oft  and  oft: 
We're  not  fit  to  hunt; 
We  are  harsh  and  stunt; 

We  are  lowly,  not  aloft; 

Yet  leave  us  free  you  wont. 

God  has  taug-ht  us  dread  of  you, 
And  He  knoweth  why 

Better  far  than  I. 
We  obey  our  instinct  true, 
And  suffer  less  thereby. 


130  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  DRILL  OF  THE  COWBOY  ROUGH  RIDER. 

Hep,  hep,  hay  foot,  straw  foot,  hay  foot,  straw  foot! 
Hep!  hep! — Holy  Moses!  both  are  hay  feet! 
"Come  along,  boys,  it's  as  easy  as  loot, 
And  a  sow  could  learn  or  a  guinea  keat!" 

Hep,  hep, — "You're  off  there,  Jack,  but  try  again, 
And  don't  limp  so  like  a  hobbled  pony! 
Now,  boys,  forget  you  are  plainsmen,  cowmen, 
And  let  one  foot  with  the  other  be  crony!" 

"But  it's  no  use,  Cap,  for  I  can't  catch  on. 
And  my  hoofs  are  caught  in  a  diamond  hitch; 
Stampede  I  must,  or  my  gumption  is  gone— 
And  how  in  the  devil  I  cross  that  ditch?" 

"If  you  let  me  off,  Captain,  I'll  toss  a  cow, 
Or  skin  a  calf  or  brand  a  maverick, 
Or  rope  a  nigger,  or  I'll  show  you  how, 
But  I  can't  go  'hep'  not  a  gol-darned  lick." 

"Or  put  me  to  cookin  or  choppin  wood, 
Or  washin  the  dishes  or  bustin  'bronks.'  ' 
Jack  plead  with  the  Captain  as  best  he  could, 
For  he  hated  'heps'  as  he  hated  skunks. 

And  the  officer  smart  from  Cruces  old, 
Concluded  he  couldn't  drill  up  his  squad, 
So  he  raked  them  through  like  a  judge  or  scold, 
Obversely  commending  their  souls  to  God. 


THE  DRILL  OF  THE  COWBOY  ROUGH  RIDER.  131 

On  the  following  day,  down  a  company  street, 
Jack  Shannon  stepped  jaunty  beside  a  bear; 
The  Captain  gazed  blank,  and  amazed,  and  'beat.' 
And  yelled  at  the  man,  "  Whatchuh  doing  there?" 

But  Jack  was  half -corned  and  he  knew  no  bound, 
Save  the  laws  of  the  plains  as  free  as  he, 
And  he  said:     "Hi,  Pall,  at  last  I  have  found 
That  there's  something  I  can  keep  step  with,  see!" 


132  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


WHAT  BOOTS  IT  TO  WEEP? 

Others  may  weep  that  grief  has  come: 
In  me  it  dries  the  spring  of  tears; 
But  in  the  passage  on  of  years, 

Who  most  will  feel  the  vacant  home? 

Or  I  or  they — which  will  it  be 
That  may  lament  with  utmost  soul 
The  stinging  pang,  the  weight  of  dole, 

By  each  imposed  and  most  by  me? 

'Tis  hence  the  strongest  blow  is  drawn 
For  me  and  those  that  sinned  in  shame 
'Gainst  her  for  whom  Fates'  deadly  aim 

Had  fiendish  hate — her  that  is  gone. 

When  night  hath  hung  about  the  world 
Its  sable  pall,  o'er  mimic  death, 
When  all  seem  dead,  save  only  breath 

That  frets  the  thick  flag,  wide  unfurled, 

Then,  in  the  gloomy  dark  of  night, 
Lit  by  a  lamp's  lone  flicker  nigh, 
I  hold  dull  converse  in  a  sigh, 

With  my  sad  heart  upon  its  blight. 

I  strive  with  all  my  mystic  might, 
With  thoughts  of  God,  of  sin  and  hell, 
And  reason  ill  or  reason  well 

To  prove  that  I  was  yet  aright; 


WHAT  BOOTS  IT  TO  WEEP?  133 

To  prove  that  all  I  did  was  yet 

Fulfilment  of  a  need  express, 

Fulfilment  of  a  wish  to  bless 
By  seeming  wrong:  and  still  I  fret 

And  vex  my  mind  that  there  was  right 
Commingled  with  the  wrong  I  felt 
Lay  in  my  deeds,  and  e'er  would  pelt 

My  every  thought  with  taunt  by  night. 

And  then  to  prayer  I  took  my  soul, 

And  on  my  knees  upheld  it  high, 

High  as  I  can  when  most  I  try, 
Unto  the  Lord  who  knew  my  dole. 

I  begged  Him  in  the  glowering  time, 
Where  shapes  stood  out  at  every  turn 
Affrighting  me  till  that  I  burn, 

As  venomed  by  some  mental  chyme. 

I  begged  that  He  by  sign  would  tell 

If  that  lorn  soul  were  yet  at  rest. 

Or  buried  in  the  marl  unblest, 
Or  waiting  till  all  would  be  well. 

And  this  end  sought,  this  begging  made, 
I  took  it  back  as  swift  as  fain, 
For  what  was  that  which  I  could  gain? 

She  loved  in  light,  or  writhed  in  shade. 

If  one  'twas  all  that  she  could  need, 

If  other,  all  was  woe,  was  woe, 

Woe  unto  her,  and  I  to  know! 
'Twould  sear  my  life — and  what  the  meed? 


134  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

And  then  I  cried,    "Oh,  God!     let  not 
The  knowledge  asked  come  near  to  me! 
I  am  content  that  it  shall  be 

Locked  up  forever  from  my  lot; 

"Or  yet  until  the  Angel's  call 

Shall  bid  me  to  a  place  more  blest — 
If  such  shall  be  my  God's  behest — 
And  then  I  would  not  blench  from  all." 

My  moaning  thus  might  mean,  O  Lord, 
I  had  not  any  trust  in  Thee: 
Thy  goodness  known  was  doubt  to  me, 

And  all  Thy  promise  like  a  sword. 

I  mixed  no  sweetness  in  my  cup, 
I  mixed  no  hoping  with  dispair, 
But  like  a  mind  grown  weak  with  wear, 

I  looked  for  lees  and  drank  them  up. 

While  thus  my  grief  had  horrid  sway. 

I  deemed  no  more  Thy  bond  was  good; 

I  deemed  Thy  promise  backed  in  blood 
A  whimsey  of  bedarkened  day. 

But  now  that  quiet  comes  again. 
As  sleeps  the  silence  in  the  wild, 
I  look  and  see  my  God  hath  smiled; 

No  more  I'll  hold  His  word  in  vain. 

Ah,  Peace,  how  blessed  is  thy  guise, 
How  tripping  as  a  maid  you  seem, 
And  pressing  balm  from  every  beam 

That  breaks  upon  light-weary  eyes. 


WHAT  BOOTS   IT  TO   WEEP'?  135 

I  hear  soft  music  in  thy  tread: 
I  scent  perfuming1  in  thy  word, 
And  gather  sounds  of  singing  heard, 

As  down  the  slope  thy  coming  led. 

Ah,  ease  of  soul  and  rest  of  thought! 

Ah,  beauty  of  recovered  calm! 

How  like  a  cure-distilling  balm 
Thou  drippest  on  the  woe  I  sought. 

Ne'er  let  me  once  again  repine; 
Ne'er  let  me  weep,  nor  moan,  nor  wail 
Raise  up  the  bark's  bedraggled  sail, 

No  more  to  moor  till  Thou  design. 

Out  on  the  ocean's  blissful  breast — 
That  ocean  where  the  sense  is  soothed — 
As  on  it  scuds  in  joy  ensmoothed, 

Drive  on  the  new-built  ship  to  rest. 

It  can  not  be — what  once  I  thought; 

There  is  no  grief  I  know  for  her, 

No  sorrows  and  no  chidings  stir, 
For  she  has  peace  that  God  has  wrought. 

Upon  His  bosom  now  she  lies, 

Safe  from  the  taunting  world  afar, 
Bright  as  a  new-found,  new-set  star 

Enkindled  by  an  angel's  eyes. 

She  was  too  good  to  cast  away. 
Too  kindly,  sad  and  lorn  I  know, 
And  now  is  plucked  from  Mercy's  bough, 

That  held  for  her  since  pristine  day. 


136  SONGS   FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Let  prayer  rise  up  in  song  and  speech, 
Thankful  to  God  for  all  his  ruth; 
He  is  a  God  to  them,  forsooth, 

Who  once  have  trusted,  trusting  each. 

When  hopes  that  fail  bedim  each  day, 
Think  of  the  newer  angel  then; 
Ask  that  she  calm  thy  griefs  again, 

When  griefs  break  in  and  try  to  stay. 

I  feel  that  I  am  better  now, 
That  better  things  engird  my  path, 
That  gone  the  troublous  trail  of  wrath, 

And  come  a  joy  that's  only  Thou. 


LET  ME  DREAM.  137 


LET  ME  DREAM. 

Let  me  dream  that — let  me  dream; 

Joy  is  in  th'  appearing; 
What  could  glad  me,  did  I  deem 

She  were  true — with  fearing? 
And  the  dream's  a  healing  balm, 

On  the  lesion  soft  and  calm; 
Let  the  fancy's  fruitful  beam 

Yield  new  life  amidst  the  searing. 

Upon  the  valley  and  the  vale, 

Brown  with  autumn's  dying, 
Wakes  from  sleep  a  violet  glad. 

Fragrant  where  all  else  is  sad. 
Quell  in  me  the  dolorous  sighing; 

Lift  away  the  burden  trying; 
I  am  growing  sick  and  pale 

If  thou  smile  'twill  all  avail. 


138  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


AFTERMATH. 

There  is  no  moon  tonight,  and  like  the  sky 

I  too  am  sad; 

Only  the  chippering  crickets  of  the  trees  are  glad: 
The  twinkling  stars  are  in  the  veiling  welkin  shy, 
Coy  like  my  heart  that  flutters  to  my  sigh, 

So  questioningly  lone, 

So  dubious,  I  ask  it  in  the  stillness,  Why? 
Or  if  a  maiden's  songful  love  hath  lost  its  tone, 
Or  if  her  look  of  love  bespoke  a  last  good-bye, 
As  vocal  as  the  trembling  sound  that  makes  a  moan. 

Hath  sorrow  come  upon  me  now  tonight,  at  last 

To  weigh  me  downy 

Ah,  me,  I  fear  some  wretch  of  ill  hath  wrought  a  frown 
Upon  her  mobile  soul,  with  love  so  vast, 
That  there  I  rested  lost,  a  solitary  cast 

Upon  immensity. 

Where'er  my  eye  might  fall,  or  on  the  burnished  past, 
Or  to  the  fore  only  her  love  I  saw  for  me, 
And  now  God  knows  if  hope  is  bound  unto  the  mast 
That  distant  fades  away!    To  me,   abandoned,   misery! 

Ah,  Ruth,  thou  perfect  child  of  Love,  forgive, 

Or  else  I  die; 

With  tears  that  flood  my  drooping,  furtive  eye, 
I  beg  thee  hear  my  prayer,  its  groans,  and  let  me  live; 
Untie  thy  smiles  once  more  and  all  their  cheer,  and  give 
A  kindled  glance,  thy  touch's  grace,  nor  more  bereave 

A  sinner  for  his  sin. 
Do  I  not  weep  in  my  lorn  room  alone? 
Thy  picture  smiled  upon  me  as  I  entered  in: 


AFTERMATH.  139 

Wilt  thou  do  less  indeed  because  I  lost  my  way 
Among  the  weeds  of  passion  like  virtue  gone  astray? 

Ah,  Ruth,  I  bless  thee!  bid  me  hopeful  rise  up  yet, 

And  say:     "I  love, 

"I  could  not  else  forgive;  for  thee  have  go^e  above 
''My  sighs:  my  dream  of  thee  tonight  no  carking  fret 
'•Dismayed,  no  dixenings  of  gloom;  no  trail  of  jet 

"Besmirched  their  pleasant  guise: 
'•I  love  thee  still  as  then,  and  love  must  love  beget; 
"What  canst  thou  see  but  it  within  these  lustrous  eyes, 
'•Which  you  have  said  to  me  were  thine;  thy  grief  upset 
"The  past  forget;  live  but  for  me;  let  joy  arise." 

Yet,  dear,  I  know  my  promise  made,  perhaps  in  vain 

I'll  strive  to  keep; 

Dost  know  the  fears  that  flock  within  like  huddled  sheep? 
I  will  to  do  aright,  but  every  thought  is  pain, 
Lest  in  the  wilderness  of  wish  the  fever  come  again, 

So  foolish,  feeble  I, — 

Lest  I  should  want  to  roam,  forsake  the  guardian  chain, 
And  wander  olf ,  leaving  the  warm  and  quiet  fold, 
To  nibble  in  another  field,  content  and  fain, 
As  men  are  led  by  wanton  greed  for  fickle  gold. 

Then  there  were  woe  for  me  and  hopelessness  indeed, 

Forevermore; 

Forgot  of  her,  her  gentle  voice  denied,  all  o'er 
The  wold  in  vain  I'd  bleat  for  her,  or  inward  bleed, 
To  dream  no  more  beside  her  cheek  gambolling  I  feed, 

Or  sip  the  dew  upon  her  lip: 

No  shepherd  now,  no  guide,  no  soft  command  to  heed, 
But  in  my  vivid  imagery  of  her  to  dip 
My  troubled  soul  to  her,  and  follow  where  I  read 
Upon  ths  scriptive  atmosphere  that  olden  slip: 
"Thou  art  my  perfect  creed!" 


SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


TO    BESSIE. 

Bessie,  in  the  depths  of  night, 
When  darkling  thoughts  enfold  me  like  a  storm. 

I  lie  awake,  and  thou  the  light, 
That  breaks  upon  the  distance,  kind  and  warm, 

A  gentle  soothing  in  affright, 

To  force  the  spectres  from  my  sight. 

And  yet  what  makes  this  depth  of  gloom;* 
Two  months  ago  I  knew  no  waking  sore  and  mad. 

'Twas  then  we  met,  delightful  bloom: 
I  swore  to  know  the  better  tho'  result  be  sad, 

And  in  my  heart  to  fill  a  room, 

Tho'  failure  bring  me  hideous  doom. 

I  knew  and  loved.     S\vift  time  goes  on. 
Fair  happiness  entwines  me  like  a  garland's  clasp, 

I  fear  no  dearth — no  hate  I  con, 
But  gladness  like  a  strong  man  strenuous  grasp, 

Lead  thou  no  baleful  star  above, 

But  let  me  look,  sweet  one,  and  love. 

Then  earth  will  be  a  garden  plot, 
With  bursting  bourgeons  brilliant  flung  around, 

And  thou  the  rose-bud  of  the  spot, 
And  I  the  gladdened  lingerer  o'er  thee  bound, 

Where  sunlight  like  a  lover  leans, 

Jealous  and  hot  and  overweens. 


ST.  MATTHEWS'  INSTITUTE — SECOND  ANNIVERSARY.     141 


ST.  MATTHEWS'  INSTITUTE- 
SECOND  ANNIVERSARY. 

Two  years  have  gone  unto  the  ambient  past, 

Like  errant  children  to  a  mother's  arm, 

Though  sinful,  bearing  to  that  goal  at  last 

Some  good  thing  earned  amid  the  world's  alarm — 

Or  like  two  hunter  boys,  superbly  bold, 

Who  sought  their  quarry  on  the  jagged  clift, 

Amid  the  sylvan  feuds  which  shades  enfold, 

And  homeward  brought  their  trophies  as  a  gift. 

They  brought  the  honest  wealth  of  deeds  well  done — 

And  earthly  coffers  tarnish  not  their  sheen — 

High  o'er  that  dome  where  wheels  the  flagrant  sun, 

And  angels  guard,  till  stewardship  has  been. 

What  better  heritage  has  man  to  leave 

This  side  the  portal  of  the  open  grave, 

Than  memories  whose  graphic,  pictured  weave 

Recounts  the  victory  of  the  Christian  brave. 

The  lonely,  hid  and  pensive  rural  saint, 

Who  treads  his  rutty  way  with  aching  feet, 

Performs  for  God  an  exploit,  pure,  untaint, 

As  he  who  succors  on  the  fevered  street. 

And  though  no  blazonry,  no  trumpets'  blare, 

Have  preached  thy  virtues  to  a  wondering  throng, 

Good  Christian  guild,  a  watcher  yet  was  there, 

Who  smiled  to  see  thee  strive  for  good  along. 

Thou  thoughtst  not  then  upon  this  gladdening  truth, 

But  in  the  time  to  come  that  thou  shalt  be, 

Remember  it,  and,  like  a  soul,  forsooth, 

Freed  from  its  chains,  work  on  unceasingly. 


142  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


WHEN  "TEDDY"  SET  UP  THE  WINE. 

The  "Rough  Riders"  are  we  all,  yes.  we  are: 
We  have  traveled  from  our  round-ups  very  far; 
We  have  met  the  bragging  don  in  his  zone, 
And  the  countries  that  he  owned  now  we  own. 

And  though  our  stomachs  ached  for  a  feeding, 
Yet  we  followed  and  we  fought  without  heeding 
That  the  soldier  needs  his  grub  just  as  handy 
As  the  Gen'ral  does  his  rare-bit  and  his  brandy. 

We  crawled  on  our  bellies  through  the  jungle, 
Not  a  bobble  did  we  make,  nor  a  bungle; 
We  slept  with  bacilli  in  the  trenches: 
We  wallowed  in  a  wilderness  of  stenches. 

Now  the  microbe  is  at  war  with  our  bodies, 
For  our  quack  gave  us  curses  'stead  of  toddies: 
We  have  raised  the  flag  of  Spain  in  our  faces. 
With  its  saffron  hue  and  many  worse  disgraces. 

Though  we  went  to  tear  the  yellow  rag  away, 
Yet  it  seems  as  if  we've  got  it  here  to  stay: 
And  when  "Teddy"  sent  us  wine  like  a  man, 
Down  the  foreign  doctor's  gullet  smooth  it  ran. 

And  we  didn't  get  a  little  bit  of  it. 
Not  enough  to  make  a  tear  drop  did  we  "git," 
For  the  doctor  had  a  thirst  like  any  leech, 
That  required  all  the  little  share  of  each. 


WHEN  "TEDDY"  SET  UP  THE  WINE.  143 

Just  "Rough  Riders"  were  we  all  from  the  west, 
Fit  for  treating  like  a  burro  at  the  best, 
Without  drugs,  and  grub  and  grog  and  tobac, 
Hence  the  bosoms  of  our  "breeches"  are  so  slack. 

Hence  the  color  from  our  cheek  away  has  fled; 
Hence  the  many  pounds  of  fatness  we  have  shed; 
But  we've  locked  our  mouths  for  shame,  just  for  shame, 
Lest,  complaining,  we  befoul  the  Nation's  name. 

Would  we  fight  that  fight  again?    Yes,  we  would; 
We  would  thrash  the  haughty  Spaniard  just  as  good; 
For  we  did  not  fight  for  fame  nor  for  gain, 
But  we  fought  for  Uncle  Sam  against  Spain. 

RUFF  RYDER. 


144  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


CUBA   LIBRE. 

For  what  are  we  warring1,  I  wonder, 

For  glory,  dominion  or  pity? 
Has  humanity  led  us  to  blunder? 

Ask  our  men  under  Roosevelt,  the  Gritty, 
At  the  drawbridge  of  Spain's  dying  city. 

There  we  see  them,  all  stripped  to  the  buff, 
In  torrid  sun  sweltering:  there, 

At  labors  too  sore  and  too  rough 
For  patriots  like  Cuba's.     I  swear 

It  makes  the  eyes  passionate  stare: 

It  makes  the  blood  faint  from  the  face, 
The  anger  rise  up  in  the  throat, 

To  know  that  we  strive  for  a  race, 
That  measures  the  first  thrilling  note 

Of  Freedom  like  squeal  of  a  shoat. 

"We  feed  them,  they  tell  me,  and  spill, 
Like  water,  the  blood  of  our  youth, 

In  the  thick-set  copse,  with  a  will 
To  yield  them  boon  of  love  and  ruth, 

And  blessed  peace  and  faithful  truth. 

And  what  do  they?    There  see  them  all 
Outstretched  beneath  sheltering  thatch, 

And  just  beyond  in  brush  they  fall, 
Our  soldiers  that  no  clime  can  match, 

At  whom  the  bloated  death-imps  snatch. 


CUBA   LIBRE.  145 

We  feed  the  beggars,  die  for  them. 

If  we  ask  for  our  dead  a  "lift," 
They  snarl  and  make  us  an  apothegm; 

Their  punche  burns;  its  smoke  is  whifft, 
And  over  us  all  its  stink  will  drift. 

"Warriors,  not  workmen,  we,"  they  say, 
Withold  their  sun-browned  brawny  hand; 

And  men  who  fought  the  livelong  day 
Must  toil  all  night  with  faithless  sand, 

That  sloth  may  thrive  throughout  the  land. 

Shall  we  yield  their  garden  to  sloth, 
Destroy  their  lords  that  drones  have  ease, 

And  rot  like  sheep  for  a  frantic  oath? 
Away  with  such  visions  as  these! 

They  are  of  honor  but  the  lees. 


10 


146  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  MAJOR. 

Speak  softly,  boys,  step  easy; 

And,  if  you  can,  hide  out; 
Stop  your  breathing  if  you're  wheezy, 

For  the  Major  is  about. 

There  down  the  street  he's  coming; 

Don't  you  hear  his  martial  tread, 
Where  the  drummer  boy  is  drumming 

And  the  flag  floats  overhead? 

That's  the  Major  looking  torrid, 
But  you  dasent  say  a  word, 

For  the  Major's  temper's  horrid, 
And  his  wrath  is  quickly  stirred. 

And  if  you  fail  to  s'lute  him, 
Though  you  work  a  mile  away, 

Sell  your  thumbs  for  he'll  pollute  'em, 
He'll  extend  'em  for  the  day. 

For  he'll  string  you  to  a  rafter, 
As  he  treated  Sergeant  Brown, 

And  the  Major  split  with  laughter, 
Till  they  let  the  sergeant  down. 

And  if  you  fall  asleep, 

In  the  middle  of  the  day, 
'Cause  the  chills  and  fevers  creep 

Through  your  body  in  a  play, 


THE  MAJOR.  147 

If  the  Major  passes  near, 

And  you  don't  get  up  to  s'lute, 
He  will  catch  you  in  the  rear 

With  the  toe-end  of  his  boot. 

You're  a  new  recruit,  I  know  it, 

And  that's  the  reason  why, 
I  tell  you  how  to  go  it, 

When  the  Major  passes  by. 

I've  heard  tell  your  father's  learned, 

And  you  are  rich  and  true, 
Or,  I  tell  you,  Satan  burn  it, 

He  would  rub  it  into  you. 

If  you  doubt  me  what  I  say, 

Ask  McGinnis,  Brito,  Murray, 
Goodrich,  Bigby,  what  a  way 

This  bold  Major  made  them  scurry. 

Here's  the  Major!  doff  your  cap! 

Crawl  upon  your  hands  and  knees! 
Br.ng  your  hand  up  that  way.  slap! 

Or  he'll  trice  you  'fore  you  sneeze. 

— RUFF  RYDER. 


148  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


JURORS  INSURGENT. 

These  verses  refer  to  an  incident  that  occurred  near  the  close  of  the 
term  of  court  held  at  Tlerra  Amarilla,  New  Mexico,  December  1897,  just  be 
fore  the  jury  withdrew  to  consider  a  murder  case. 

The  court  was  full  of  people, 
And  they  thoughtful  sat  around, 

While  the  bell  within  the  steeple 
Hammered  out  the  midnight  sound . 

Not  a  word  had  yet  been  spoken, 

Not  a  murmer  fluttered  out, 
Not  a  whisper  nor  a  token, 

To  explain  what  was  about. 

Till  the  jurors  onward  surging 
Caught  the  judge's  steady  eye, 

As  if  the  menace  urging, 
They  would  something  do  or  die. 

What  means  this  strange  commotion, 
This  gathering  and  this  blare? 

What  means  this  dull  explosion, 
And  the  shaking  hands  in  air? 

There  the  sheriff  he  stood  quiet, 

With  a  meek  and  holy  face, 
Looking  lost  amidst  the  riot, 

And  exactly  out  of  place. 

And  the  bailiffs  seeming  smitten 

With  a  paralytic  stroke, 
Emulate  a  woolen  kitten, 

And  the  steadfastness  of  oak, 


JURORS  INSURGENT.  149 

Looking  round  in  helpless  fashion, 
From  the  bench  to  box  and  back, 

Till  the  Judge  got  red  with  passion, 
When  he  hit  his  desk  a  whack. 

Then  up  rose  slim  Francisco, 

A  juror  sleek  and  true, 
From  a  village  called  Atrisco, 

Which  the  Chama  paddles  through. 

There  was  splendor  in  his  glances, 

And  a  rumble  in  his  voice, 
Like  the  sound  when  river  dances 

Where  the  rapids  toss  and  poise. 

"If  Your  Honor  please."  he  muttered, 

For  a  month  this  court  has  wrought, 
But  the  jury  have  not  uttered 
Half  a  word  of  what  they  thought. 

"But  patience,  like  the  river, 
Has  its  tidal  ebb  and  flow, 
And  like  the  Indian's  quiver, 
Has  its  little  bunch  of  woe. 

' '  It  long  suffers  like  the  worm, 

Every  spitefulness  and  spurn, 
But  it  still  reserves  a  squirm 
And  the  right  at  last  to  turn. 

"  Then  give  us  beds,  we  ask  you, 
Where  the  itchy  buglets  a'int, 
And  we'll  resign  our  martial  hue 
And  dissipate  our  paint. 


150  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

"If  this  county's  kingly  reach 

Can  not  yield  us  place  to  rest, 
Let  us  slumber  'neath  the  screech 
Of  the  owlet  in  its  nest, 

"  Where  the  grieving  pine  trees  swing 

Let  us  borrow  clean  repose, 
Where  the  sylvan  minstrels  sing, 
And  the  chatting  Chama  goes, 

"And  there  make  down  our  couches, 

Like  the  dames  of  long  ago, 
And  we'll  all  forget  our  'ouches' 
And  the  mites  that  smite  us  so. 

"Yet  another  plaint  we  make  you: 
There  are  twelve  of  us  you  see, 
Still  one  towel  is  all  that  grew 
On  the  court-house  towel  tree. 

"We  have  used  it  and  abused  it 
Till  its  face  is  blue  and  black, 
And  where  the  bailiffs  used  it 
There  are  tunnels  in  its  back. 

"Entomologists  inform  us 

That  we  suffer  greater  blow 
From  Capitis  Pediculus, 
As  perhaps  you  also  know. 

"And  we  have  no  bowl  or  basin. 

So  we  imitate  the  cat, 
And  we  daily  lave  our  face  in 
Our  own  spittle — think  of  that!" 


JURORS  INSURGENT.  151 

But  His  Honor's  scowl  was  torrid, 

As  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
And  his  countenance  got  florid, 

And  his  pleasant  voice  got  gruff: 

"Well,  I  can't  assist  you  any, 

For  your  county  board's  a  fool; 

It  would  make  a  first-class  granny, 

Or  charwoman  round  a  school. 

"  But  it  hasn't  got  the  gumption 

To  provide  a  decent  court, 

And  its  glory  is  presumption, 

And  its  dignity  a  snort." 


152  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


-LAMENTATION. 

Hushed  is  her  voice:  no  more  I  hear 

It  rise  and  fall  where'er  I  be: 
The  smile,  the  laughter  and  the  tear, 

For  others  gone — but  not  for  me. 

And  though  they  take  away  the  form 
Whereon  those  fevers  wrought  their  spell, 

Here  memory  will  keep  them  warm, 
And  save  tham  all  forever  well. 

They  can  not  take  the  skill  from  me 
To  paint  the  past  as  it  has  been. 

Unless  the  mind  grow  false  and  flee, 
Purloining  all  that  I  have  seen. 

Keep  her,  Oh  God!  keep  Thou  the  child, 
And  I  will  come  and  be  with  her! 

Heed  not  my  plainings;  they  are  wild 
Balsam,  and  hyssop  wild,  and  myhrr. 


TO  CHARLES   W.   DUDROW.  153 

TO  CHARLES  W.  DUDROW. 

Santa  Fe,  N.  M.,  October  14,  1899. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Dudrow: 

I  send  you  herewith 
My  order  on  bank  for  six-sixty, 
To  settle  in  full  ( and  this  is  no  myth ) 
That  fellow's  account  which  did  fix  me. 

We  have  all  had  misfortunes,  responding  for  friends, 

Because  of  their  promises  broken, 

But  here,  I  do  swear  it,  my  good-nature  ends, 

For  friends  will  be  false  to  the  words  they  have  spoken. 

And  those  who  are  "easy"  to  others'  appeals, 
Have  often  the  street  to  cross  over, 
When  Rice  or  "Repeater"  tiptoeingly  steals 
Around  with  the  bill  like  a  rover. 

When  next  with  my  signature  cometh  a  "guy" 
To  purchase  your  wares  on  my  credit, 
Remember  my  vow-word,  that  never  snail  I 
"Pay  up;"  so,  the  copy  pray  edit. 

Return  me  receipt  as  a  forceful -reminder 
Of  losses  men  suffer  who  pity; 
Let  others  be  softer  and  "easier"  and  kinder, 
And  believe  me, 

Yours  truly, 

A.  B. 


154  SONGS   FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


EPIGRAMS. 

I  lead  the  social  band, 

Because  I've  had  a  past: 
The  ex  of  vice  may  stand 

At  front  from  first  to  last, 
By  virtue  of  a  record  that  was  fast. 


What  frills  the  little  world  puts  on, 
Though  Death  the  frills  will  later  don! 


The  doctor  admits  no  knowledge  but  his'n: 
The  lawyer  shakes  the  rival's  hand  he  hates. 
It  would  the  theologian  dizzen 
To  tell  which  practice  up  among  the  Fates — 
The  open  loathing,  or  the  hidden  sneer — 
Will  be  preferred  when  Judgment  Day  is  here. 


When  Chance  exalts  a  pigmy  to  a  throne, 
The  humdrum  crowd  receives  a  mighty  mind, 
Where  just  before  was  puny  wit  confined, 
As  heathens  see  a  god  in  clay  or  stone. 


O,  Woman's  beauty, 

Thou  art  often  snide, 
Like  gold  by  fakirs  hawked  the  street  beside, 


EPIGRAMS.  155 

Or  smeary  booty, 
From  a  sacred  jar 
Upon  a  shelf,  for  pimple,  blotch  and  scar! 


The  oath  of  office  is  a  fetich  old 

That  fools  adore 
Until  their  confidence  is  bought  and  sold 

Their  face  before. 
If  judges  wish  the  righteous  claim  to  balk, 

For  private  gain, 
Herein,  like  feudal  lords,  these  vow-words  stalk, 

Correctly  vain: 
If  soul  official  entertains  a  doubt, 

Because  it  would, 
Like  villeins  base  official  oaths  go  out, 

As  if  they  should. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


LOVE'S   FRAILTY.  159 


LOVE'S  FRAILTY. 

While  Urban's  useless  crystal  tears  debouch, 

And  vainly  drips  his  ruddy  blood  for  love, 
His  Lucy  for  a  hundred,  loyal  dove, 

Has  bargained  to  some  Naib  half  her  couch. 
Let  Virtue  for  her  profit  learn  that  pouch, 

Thrown  open  wide,  of  wealthy  pelican, 
Is  worth  far  more  to  Love,  a  merchant,  than 

The  poor  heart's  openness,  for  which  I  vouch. 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


160  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  FIRST-BLOWN  FLOWER. 

Oh,  Lisi,  this,  the  first-blown  springtime  flore, 
That  has  confided  in  the  leaves  and  hues, 
Of  late  begot  by  warmth  and  morning  dews, 
And  risked  her  honor  on  the  river's  shore ! 

It  is  of  Spring,  this  bloom  I  ponder  o'er, 
And  all  the  sunny  tints  of  selves  sent  news 
By  it,  the  first-fruits  of  the  floral.     Use! 
It  is  the  spirit's  cult  for  thee,  and  more. 

Tis  born  a  brief  existence  to  consume; 
Its  years  are  only  hours.  A  little  while 
About  its  birth  and  death  brings  joy  and  gloom. 

Upon  thy  tresses  let  it  bide  and  smile, 
The  favorite  of  the  year.     It  draws  no  doom. 
An  endless  morn  to  it  on  th'  other  isle! 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


NIGHTINGALE.  161 


NIGHTINGALE. 

Vocal  flower,  flying  flower, 

Whistle  with  wings  and  painted  voice, 
Lyric  in  plumes  that  bids  rejoice. 

Songful  nosegay  on  the  bower; 

Tell  me,  atom  whence  thy  power, 
Swung  in  air,  thou  flowery  tune, 
Beauteous,  sweet  beneath  the  lune, 

And  total  sum  of  sweet  and  fair, 
To  capture  music  and  the  moon? 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


11 


1<>2  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 

Beneath  this  stone  a  worthless  Christian  lies; 

(A  writer  doubtless  otherwise.) 
Not  that  he  was  misfortune's  favored  "cuss:" 

(  Some  gentleman  he  was: ) 
But  not  that  wealth  he  had  and  mettle  too 

( Undoubtedly  a  Jew. ) 
Because  he  was  a  thief?    it  is  not  so; 

He  had  to  be  that  which  he  was  I  know. 
Not  that  he  was  less  prudent  far  than  "gabby:" 

A  gentleman  he  was  though  somewhat    "shabby." 
Not  merely  poet  was  this  ample  man, 

For  in  him  all  these  things  together  ran. 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


MOSQUITO.  163 


MOSQUITO. 

Devil  bewinged  or  noise  with  wings, 
Queer,  weaponed  mite,  or  witchlike  bird, 

Wingy  needle  not  seen  but  heard, 
That  buzzing  lets  the  blood  from  things, 
Gnat  or  flea  that  grumbles  and  sings. 

Shrill  horn  and  chinch  and  trumpeter; 

Barbarous  fly,  I  dare  you  stir! 
You  come  to  stab  me,  rank  outsider, 

The  same  as  comes  the  poisoned  spider, 
Though  not  my  husband,  scrubby  sir! 
— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


164  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


AT  THE  TOMB  OF  THE   DUKE  DE  LERMA,  ROMAN 
CARDINAL. 

These  were  pillars  which  now  you  see  are  bones, 

The  which  when  living  propped  the  Spanish  State. 
Their  generous  soul  drove  on  their  country's  fate 

To  mastery  of  its  multipeopled  zones. 
It  bore  the  troublous  weight  a  two-world  owns, 

That  which  you  look  upon  as  ashes  cold, 
And  fortunate  events  by  wit  unrolled 

Illumed  the  brain  which  now  this  hole  disowns. 
To  Philip  Third  he  was  a  servant  true, 

And  yet  disgraced,  unreconciled  ne  died, 
Because  one  fault  the  King  unhaply  knew. 

Though  luck  forsook,  love  lingered  by  his  side. 
Greater  in  death  he  was,  beneath  the  yew, 

Than  living.     Lerrna,  this  to  thee  abide! 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


FREDERICK,   BROTHER  OF  THE  MARQUIS  ESPINOLA.       165 


FREDERICK,  BROTHER  OF  THE  MARQUIS  ESPINOLA. 

Here  softly  rest,    Oh  solemn  passer  nigh, 
Beneath  this  frozen  marble  monument, 
The  bones  of  Mars,  in  powdered  ashes  blent, 
That  always  led  where  Victory's  flag  was  high. 

Hold!  on  them  trample  not!    nor  pass  them  by, 
For  that  would  be  profaning,  breme  and  shent, 
The  trophies,  not  of  Death,  but  Pate's  that  went. 
And  conquered  Fame  to  sing  them  to  the  sky. 

The  crafty  thunderbolt  of  horrid  war 
Doth  emulate  the  hasty  hand  of  Might, 
And  shuts  up  Frederick  in  this  stony  bar. 
Alas!     'tis  Death  in  leaden  mask  bedight! 

On  sea  nor  land  nor  death  could  fatal  mar 
At  all  without  thy  sword  in  thy  good  right. 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Francisco  de  Quevedo. 


166  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


LA  VIRTUD  PERDIDA. 

I  was  fair  one  time  in  the  gladsome  mead. 

Most  tropical-beaming  of  splendid  flowers: 
All  eyes  unto  me  flung  loving's  lush  dowers, 

Till,  palsied,  apostate,  I  bartered  my  creed. 

How  bitter  the  day  when  listless  I  hearkened 
Lacivious,  coaxing  and  wheedling  swain, 

And  for  joys  that  were  fleeting,  and  sordid,  and  vain, 
Forever  my  brilliance  and  glory  I  darkened. 

'Mongst  daisies  and  dahlias,  the  cornbloom  and  rose, 
I  swung  where  the  garden  sprites  tender  were  dreaming. 

Till  kissing,  caressing,  coy  fondling  and  seeming 
Deceived,  and  I  fell  where  the  dandelion  grows. 

Now  memory  derides  me — sad  emblem  and  token 
Of  blush  and  resplendence  and  gladness  I  knew! 

The  flower-folk  beguiled,  the  believing  and  true, 
Lapse  from  all  pulchritude,  ban  that  was  spoken! 

To  you,  garden  subjects,  warm  bedplot  farewell! 

My  regnance  is  vanished,  my  diadem  wilted; 
The  dews  that  bediamonded,  zephyrs  that  lilted 

Their  love  songs,  disown  me,  within  my  own  dell. 

— From  the  Spanish  of  Larkin  G.  Read. 


THE  EMIGRANT   MOUNTAINEER.  167 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOUNTAINEER. 

How  kindly  memory  comes  at  morn 
And  points  the  spot  where  I  was  born! 
Were  those  not,  sister,  gladsome  days 

Away  beyond  the  sea'? 
Oh!    dearest  Land,  through  sheen  and  haze, 

Thou  ever  Love  to  me! 

Do  you  remember  mother  dear, 
Singing  to  us  so  low  and  clear 
As  she  caught  us  close  against  her  breast 

In  the  failing  light? 
And  how  her  white  hair  doubly  blest 

We  kissed  for  last  good  night? 

Do  you  remember,  sister,  yet 

The  cottage,  and  the  brook  that  set 

Caresses  at  its  feet,  the  high, 

Old,  dingy  Moorish  tower, 
The  bell  that  rang  when  dawn  was  nigh, 

And  evening  in  the  bower? 

Remember  yet  the  quiet  lake, 
Where  the  swallow  skimmed,  a  flake 
Of  life,  the  rushes  Zephyr  bent, 

As  he  sped,  by  a  touch, 
The  sun  that  set  and  shimmering  sent 
Its  last  ray  o'er  the  hutch? 

Do  you  remember  her,  (  sweet  girl, ) 
Fair  ensign  on  the  life  I  furl? 


168  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

As  on  the  heights  we  culled  alone 

The  swinging  mountaia  flower, 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  my  own 
Forgetful  of  the  hour. 

Oh!    give  me  back  my  Helen  now, 
The  craggy  glen,  the  oaken  bough! 
It  tries  me  sorely,  day  by  day, 

This  deathless  memory, 
And,  till  shall  end  my  wandering  way, 

Her  vision  walks  with  me. 

— From  the  French  of  Chateaubriand. 


UNHOLY  LOVE.  169 


UNHOLY  LOVE. 

How  often  hast  thou  said  to  me  in  happy  hour, 
When  my  brow  was  sudden  wrought  by  etching  care, 
''Upon  thy  lip  why  does  that  dread  smile  lower, 
And  in  thine  eyes  why  tears  that  glare? ' ' 

For  why?  because  my  heart  surrounded  by  delight, 
But  constantly  beset  by  jealous  memory, 
Cold  in  present  fortune,  seeks  some  penal  blight 
In  past  and  also  time  to  be. 

Even  in  thy  kisses  find  I  pain,  excelling  pain; 
With  love  thou  overloadst  me,  love  which,  I  opine, 
At  the  first  time  glided  in  thy  purple  vein 
To  other  kiss  and  touch  than  mine. 

Vainly  hast  thou  made  me  drunk  with  passion's  fire! 
Many  sad  tomorrows  I  would  give  for  glad  today ! 
Those  panting  charms  thou  gavest  at  my  desire, 
Ah,  others  knew  but  yesterday. 

Though  mad  with  jealous  rage,  for  thee  I  cannot  hold 
The  graceless  prize  of  those  that  keep  no  faith  of  soul; 
A  word  said  at  the  altar  made  thee  wife,  I'm  told, 
And  saves  thee  from  the  scornful  role. 

That  word  has  sold  thee  to  his  dull  caresses, 
And  love  should  never  get  nor  give  them  any  more; 
And  hence  a  husband's  rights  should  guide  all  tender 
nesses. 
Thy  kisses  are  his  rightful  store! 


170  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Unhappy  wretch  am  I  upon  the 'world  thrown  down, 
A  hostage  like  that  neither  knows  nor  loves  its  laws; 
Poor  me,  I  do  not  know,  in  sorrow  sere  and  brown. 
To  bear  unvenged  love's  tearing  claws. 

Unhappy!  why?  because  a  voice  not  sprung  from  earth 
To  me  has  said:     "  Thy  future  fate  requires  his  doom," 
And  in  that  voice  I've  understood  the  mystic  girth 
Of  murder  and  the  scaffold's  gloom. 

Then  come,  Angelic  Wrong,  whose  voice  invites  me  now! 
A  moment  since  if  I  had  seen  thee  round  about, 
To  shed  his  blood  I  could  have  yielded  life,  I  vow. 
Indeed  my  soul,  had  I  no  doubt. 

— From  the  French  of  Alexander  Dumas. 


WHAT   IS   LIFE?  171 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

In  my  heart  I  have  muttered,  "Oh!    what  is  life?" 
I  will  perish  like  those  that  passed  ahead, 

As  the  lamb  that  goes  where  the  ewe  has  led, 
And  vie  with  fools  in  foolishness  and  strife. 

On  the  deep  we  search  for  the  silly  pelf, 

And  the  waves  gulp  down  both  us  and  hope; 

Another  creeps  upward  the  famal  slope, 
Where  staggering  genius  is  drunk  of  self. 

My  passions  unloosed  weaving  crafty-spun  guile, 

I  rear  a  lofty  web  and  mount  to  fall: 
Delightedly  caught  in  nets  finest  of  all, 

I  read  but  my  fate  in  a  woman's  smile. 

The  lazy  lie  down  sleeping  dirty,  unfed; 

The  husbandman  follows  the  harrow  that  tills; 
The  sage  reads  and  thinks;  the  guard  strikes  and  kills; 

The  mendicant  whines  by  the  road  for  bread. 

Whither  do  they  go?    They  go  where  the  leaf, 
Which  the  storm-wind  drives  before  it,  goes, 

To  wither  away,  poor  lives  that  time  sows, 
Gathering  when  the  crop  is  bound  in  sheaf. 

With  Time  they  wrestled;  Time  has  won  the  fall. 

As  the  wave  sucks  in  the  rack  on  the  shore, 
I've  seen  it  drink  their  shades  that  ran  before; 

They're  born;  they're  dead.    Lord,  have  they  lived  atall? 

— From  the  French. 


172  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY. 

I  went  along  a  mossy  way: 
On  the  night  of  the  dead  it  was. 
The  winds  are  mute  or  barely  buzz: 
And  the  bell  sounds  out  and  I  stay— 
I  stop,  for  I  think  it  is— 
Below  in  a  turn  of  the  lane — 
A  voice  I  hear— I  hear  it  plain 
Softly  praying-  De  Profundis. 

"  What  voice?"  I  ask,  and  tremble  there, 
And  over  the  fallow  fields  I  peer. 
But  nothing  I  see,  and  still  I  fear. 
And  stand  on  the  road  which  I  fare. 
As  no  one  comes  I  musing  go: 
My  heart  is  chilled  and  my  cheek  is  wan, 
And  my  lips  of  themselves  go  on 
With  the  verse  that  follows,  slow. 

I  cease;  the  voice  takes  up  the  prayer 
Where  I  left  it  off  at  the  end: 
And  then  I  see  a  stranger  wend. 
An  unknown  traveler  there. 
With  a  sound  I  can't  at  all  essay, 
Her  voice  sepulchral  closed  the  verse. 
And  I  the  following  verse  rehearse, 
To  the  end  of  the  psalm  of  the  day. 

And  over  beyond  the  leafy  screen 

I  saw  arise  a  silvery  star: 

Its  glance  was  soft,  and  sweet,  and  far, 


ALL  SOULS'   DAY.  173 

And  shone  on  me  with  gentle  sheen. 
It  was  throughout  the  endless  space, 
The  only  beam  above  the  night 
To  make  the  welkin  blue  and  bright, 
The  only  smile  on  heaven's  face. 

Alone  I  went  my  lonely  way: 

The  breeze  sighed  sometimes  fitfully; 

The  sylvan  selvage  seemed  to  me 

To  glide  in  graceful  silent  play; 

The  boscages  were  frightful  all, 

As  always  in  the  autumn  night; 

The  farms  were  lone,  nor  fay  nor  sprite 

Save  that  beside  me  thin  and  tall. 

And  as  we  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
The  psalm  was  drawing  to  a  close; 
I  shivered  as  the  height  I  rose, 
The  voice  had  grown  so  very  shrill. 
And  there  within  the  tufted  wood, 
Through  which  a  feeble  zephyr  blew, 
I  saw  the  white  star  trembling  too, 
And  sparkling  brightly  where  it  stood. 

At  length  we  reached  the  pathway's  end, 
Beset  with  saplings,  elm  and  oak, 
All  half  denuded  of  their  cloak — 
I  ask  you  little  more  attend — 
There  near  a  mound  of  saffron-hue — 
And  now  my  tale  is  nearly  run — 
I  heard  a  cry:  "I'm  saved,  'tis  done; 
My  savior  be  you  blessed  too!" 

The  silence  fell  upon  the  land, 
Uneasy  ghosts  and  bustling  men, 
And  in  my  heart  I  knew  it  then 


174  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

A  suffering  soul  had  touched  my  hand. 
I  hurried  on  with  glad,  good  will, 
My  lightened  footsteps  less  resound; 
A  prayer  I  muttered,  and  I  found 
The  bell  was  striking  slowly  still. 

— From  the  French  of  Turjruety. 


THE  CONVALESCENT.  175 


THE  CONVALESCENT. 

I  have  seen  all  my  life 

Slip  slowly  down  the  slope; 
In  the  midst  of  the  strife 

Withdrew  my  star  of  hope. 
The  wings  of  death  outspread, 

With  endless  shadow  covered 

The  splendid  light  of  day, 
And  in  my  mortal  nest 
I  sought  to  hold  the  rest 

Of  time  ere  it  could  fly  away. 

Great  God,  thy  hand  takes  back 

The  gift  it  gave  to  me, 
And  cuts  the  threads,  alack! 

Of  hidden  time  to  be. 
My  last  sun  upward  looms, 

But  linger  yet  the  glooms. 

From  life  thy  anger  hurls 
Me  down  like  withered  leaf, 

The  toy  of  every  wind  that  whirls. 

And  like  some  ravening  thing 

Disease  has  crunched  my  bones, 
And  graveyard  opening 

A  tombward  passage  loans. 
And  at  the  hideous  sight, 

All  day  and  through  the  night 

I  sigh,  a  victim  like; 
And  in  my  fear  to  die, 
A  trembling  wren  am  I, 

The  falcon's  claw  prepares  to  strike. 


176  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 

Thus,  thus  my  cries  and  fears 
The  death-tick  chuckles  o'er. 
My  eyes,  all  bathed  in  tears, 

Tired  out,  would  ope  no  more. 
To  inky  night  I  cry: 
"OIi  night,  and  must  I  lie 

Forever  in  thy  shade, 
Forgotten  where  I  sleep?" 
To  flushing  morn  I  weep: 
"My  final  day  is  almost  made!'' 

"My  soul  is  in  the  gloom, 

My  feet  are  growing  cold; 
O  hear  my  shrieks  of  doom 

And  answer  me,  O  God!" 
At  last  His  kindly  hand 

Closed  up  the  yawning  land 

Agape  my  path  beneath; 
Ah,  He  has  raised  me  up! 
Life's  plenal  cup  I  sup, 

The  life  late  snatched  from  bragging  Death. 
— From  the  French  of  J.  B.  Rousseau. 


THE   ANGEL   AND  THE  CHILD.  177 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD. 

A  radiant  cherub,  sweet  and  fair, 

Bent  him  over  a  trundle  bed, 
As  if  he  saw  his  image  there, 

As  in  some  brooklet  mountain-fed. 

"  Beautiful  infant,  just  like  me, 

Oh,  come  and  follow  me  where  I  go, 
And  happy  together  we  both  will  be; 
The  world  is  not  worthy  of  thee! 

"  There,  there  is  never  ending  joy, 

Nor  suffers  the  soul  with  gladness; 
There  pleasure  has  no  sighs,  my  boy, 
And  joyfulness  has  no  sadness. 

"  Can  ever  sorrows  or  fears  or  years 

Invade  a  quietude  fit  for  you, 
And  with  the  bitterness  of  tears 
Bedim  your  gentle  eyes  of  blue? 

"  Ah,  no,  no!    In  the  fields  of  space 

With  me  come  wander  always  free, 

And  God  will  surely  give  thee  grace 

For  thy  days  that  were  yet  to  be." 

And  spreading  wide  his  shiny  wings, 

The  angel  upward  took  his  flight, 
Up  to  the  place  where  the  choir  sings. 
Poor  mother!  baby  died  that  night. 

— From  the  French  of  Reboul. 
12 


178  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


THE  LEAF. 


"From  thy  twig  torn  away, 
Poor  orispen  leaf,  I  say, 

Whither  now?" 
"Alas!    I  do  not  know; 
The  oak  tree  lieth  low. 

Who  art  thou?" 

"It  was  my  only  friend, 
I  know  not  where  I  wend, 

Know  not  how. 
From  the  sea  to  the  rills, 
From  the  plains  to  the  hills, 

I  am  flung." 

"The  noisy  madcap  wind 
Romped  around  me  so  unkind 

Where  I  hung! 
Now  rustling  in  the  gale, 
I  fret  not,  nor  I  wail, 

For  'tis  vain." 

"My  fate  is  that  of  all; 
The  rose  leaf  on  the  wall, 

That  is  ta'en. 
The  laurel  it  is  reft 
From  the  sprig  where  it  left 

Such  a  grief. 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  me, 
If  I  die  or  if  I  be, 

I'm  a  leaf." 
— From  the  French  of  Arnault. 


SONNET.  179 


SONNET. 

I've  lost  my  hope,  my  wish  to  live. 

And  all  my  friends  and  gladness  all, 
And  even  the  pride  which,  I  recall, 

Produced  the  gifts  I  used  to  give. 

And  when  I  met  with  boasted  truth, 

I  took  it  for  a  bosom  friend, 
But  when  I  knew  it  well  the  end 

Was  hate  of  it,  disgust,  forsooth. 

And  yet  this  truth  lives  endlessly, 

And  those  who  passed  it  by,  ah  me! 
Have  everything  on  earth  ignored. 

God  speaks,  and  we  must  answer  up. 

The  only  good  within  my  cup 
Is  sometimes  I  have  wept,  O  Lord! 

— From  the  French  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 


180  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


EPIGRAM. 

This  world  is  but  a  comic  play 

Where  each  plays  many  parts. 
There  on  the  stage  in  fine  array 

Strut  statesmen,  priests  and  low  upstarts. 
The  rabble  on  the  rearward  stools, 

A  useless  gang  but  fit  for  scorn. 
And  so  we  watch  the  play  like  fools: 

We  pay  the  toll — and  we  are  shorn, 
And  if  the  parts  are  badly  played 

We  hiss  the  actors  unafraid. 

— From  the  French  of  J.  B.  Rousseau. 


THE  DELUGE.  181 


THE  DELUGE. 

Where  once  the  shapely  young  deer  fed, 

Amorphous  seals  are  seen, 
And  nymphs,  astonished,  scan  the  dead 

Beneath  the  waters  green. 

And  dolphins  in  the  woods  from  play 

Among  the  maple  rest, 
And  lash  the  elm  and  victor  bay, 

And  with  the  holmoak  jest. 

Distracted  wolves  howl  'midst  the  sheep, 

By  ceaseless  waves  born  on, 
And  lions,  tawny  tigers  leap 

At  Doom's  Leviathan. 

The  wild  boar's  tusk  that  once  was  keen 

As  lightning's  dreadful  blade, 
Nor  fawn's  light  limb  can  shift  the  scene, 

That  Jovian  wrath  has  made. 

The  sleepless  bird  that  near  the  sky 

Her  tired  wings  had  spread, 
When  earth  retains  no  haven  dry, 

Relaxes  and  is  dead. 

The  seas  like  pirates  roam  and  roam, 

Or  on  the  hilltops  drowse, 
Invade  the  quiet  mountain  home, 

And  with  the  peaks  carouse. 

Ah,  scarce  a  living  thing  survives; 

Whomever  they  may  spare, 
Lean  Hunger  on  him  livid  thrives, 

And  heats  his  fever  there. 

— From  Ovid's  Metamorphosis. 


182  SONGS  FROM  THE  BLACK  MESA. 


DEUCALION'S  ADDRESS  TO  PYRRA. 

No  rescue  advances,  no  promise,  no  hope; 

My  soul  by  the  scowl  of  yon  cloud  is  dismayed; 
Companionship  ended:  no  green  hillocks  slope, 

And  man  in  the  shrine  of  his  spirit  is  laid. 

What  hideous  horror  would  wither  thy  mind, 
Did  Fate  thee  alone  from  the  wave  hold  secure! 

Oh,  couldst  thou  be,  Pyrra,  alone  and  resigned, 
Oh,  couldst  thou  the  gloom  of  this  moment  endure? 

Believe  me,  my  wife,  had  the  grim  sea  engulfed  thee, 

I  could  not  this  frightfullest  exile  abide: 
I  would  rush  to  the  place  where  false  Neptune  despoiled  me, 

That  in  death  the  bond  hold  that  in  life  had  been  tied. 

Oh,  ye  gods,  that  I  could  stolen  friends  now  restore 
By  the  art  that  Prometheus  knew  in  his  day! 

Oh,  ye  gods,  that  I  could  to  the  shaped  clay  once  more, 
Inbreathe  the  flown  breath  of  it  wafted  away! 

The  race  of  the  mortal  survives  in  us  now, 

For  thus  the  gods  ruled  in  their  wisdom's  decree: 
"Memorial  of  Man,"  it  is  writ  on  our  brow, 

But  our  sons  from  this  cancelling  law  shall  be  free. 

Oh  sister,  oh  consort,  oh  yet  fondled  wife, 
Whom  parentage  joins  with  the  bridal  to  me, 

These  anguishes  link  in  their  turn  to  my  life! 
If  felicity  lives  it  is  only  in  thee! 

All,  all  whom  the  gaze  of  the  rising  sun  greets, 
And  all  whom  he  sees  in  his  western  decline, 

Compose  all  the  world  in  his  passage  he  meets: — 
The  seas  wrap  the  rest  in  their  merciless  brine. 

—From  Ovid's  Metamorphosis. 


JF- 


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